


a long lived mayfly

by isawet



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: AU, F/F, Modern Era, Slow Burn, Stargate AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 07:11:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13476357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isawet/pseuds/isawet
Summary: Clarke Griffin embarks on the Arkadia project, a civilian led expedition to the Pegasus Galaxy that abruptly finds itself untethered from Earth's support.The clexa stargate atlantis au nobody asked me to write. No prior knowledge of the stargate universe needed. Intrigue, adventures, slowburn.





	a long lived mayfly

**Author's Note:**

> While several people have been kind enough to look at this for me, I kept editing and editing and fucking with it and so I'm sure there are errors and typos and all kinds of shit. If you see something and want to let me know, I'd be very appreciative and quick to fix.
> 
> also, although I feel like this isn't a reason to get angry comments I probably will so: Lexa does not appear until chapter 2.

“Are you fucking with me?” Clarke asks after a long, long silence. She clears her throat and tries again. “I mean, uh, may I see your credentials?” 

The two men in neat uniforms, crisp Air Force Blues, don’t blink an eye at her casual profanity. They obediently hand over black leather badge folds and a stack of papers stamped with various seals. Clarke looks them over closely, and hopes she’s exuding that she would know a forgery if she saw one. The closest she’s ever come to badges is television, and she probably couldn’t pick a fake credential out of a lineup, so after a moment she hands everything back.

“Right,” she says slowly. “So the pyramids are… spaceships. And the aliens used to kidnap people for slaves and take them to other planets. And Earth is sending an expedition to another galaxy, away from the pyramid aliens.”

“The pyramids aren’t functional spaceships,” the one on the right says, “they’re modeled after motherships.”

“Right,” Clarke says again. She stares at them for another few seconds. “Sorry, can I see those badges again?” The one on the left hands everything over, and Clarke sits on her couch, holding them loosely. “This is crazy,” she says, “you know this is crazy.”

“Dr. Griffin,” Right Crazy says, clasping his hands together. “We understand this is a lot to process, but the United States Government is offering you a once in a lifetime opportunity.”

Clarke gapes at him. “I haven’t even started my residency. I just graduated?” A lightbulb goes off. “You’re probably thinking of my mother. I have her number--”

Left Crazy interrupts her fumbling for her cellphone. “The program is deliberately looking for young, promising leaders in their fields, at the beginning of their careers. You will complete all further requirements as part of the expedition. You may also be asked to accompany teams in the field.”

“The field,” Clarke repeats, her voice going high pitched, “as in other planets?”

Left Crazy looks at her, still irritatingly calm. “You completed emergency medical training?”

“Yes,” Clarke stutters, “but--”

“And you’ve yet to accept any offers for other programs?”

Clarke flushes. “I haven’t applied to that many,” she protests, kicking her sketchbook under the table. “I was thinking about a gap year…”

Right Crazy stands, dropping a small business card on the table. “You have nine days to think over our offer.”

“ _Nine_ days?” Clarke’s phone starts to ring, and she drops it in surprise, still buzzing and chirping. “That’s not very much time--” she tries to pick it up and fumbles, dropping it into the couch cushions. 

Left Crazy takes the papers from Clarke’s hands before she can drop those too, not unkindly. “We would like to remind you at this time that the non-disclosure agreements you signed at the beginning of this discussion are binding and will be enforced to their fullest extent.”

“Yeah,” Clarke says, standing with them. “Like I’m about to shout about Egyptian aliens from the rooftops.”

“Not actually Egyptian,” Left Crazy reminds her, and they tip their fancy military hats as they leave.

Clarke closes the door behind them and blows out a sigh. She walks slow back over to the couch, flopping facefirst into the cushion. She shoves a hand into the crack, uncomfortably reminded of some of the birthing readjustment videos she’s seen in her classes, and drags out her phone.

_Mom Missed Call, New Voicemail_

“Ugh,” Clarke mutters, swiping the notification away. She pads into the kitchen and hauls the fridge open with a grunt, wincing at the sticky handle. It’s empty, same as the last three times she’s looked, and she digs through a pile of styrofoam containers and half-crumpled napkins on the chipped countertop and comes up triumphant, clutching a dented cup of noodles. She fills it with one hand at the sink, tapping at her phone with the other. 

Wells picks up while she’s loading it into the microwave, closing it three times before it latches and slapping at the buttons until it groans on, whirring unevenly. “Clarke?”

“Feed me,” Clarke says plaintively. 

Wells laughs on the other end. “Nothing but ramen?”

“Ugh,” Clarke agrees. 

“I think the food might get cold while you’re waiting,” Wells muses. His easy friendship and warm affection over the line makes Clarke feel better than she has in days. “It’s a long flight from Boston to California.”

“That’s your fault,” Clarke complains, “moving all the way away from me.”

Wells makes a noncommittal noise. “You gonna tell me the real reason you called?”

“No.” Clarke gets tired of waiting and yanks the microwave open. “It’s your normally scheduled bitchfest.” She casts an unexpectant look around the kitchen for a utensil and shrugs, leaning over the sink to pour hot salty water and undercooked noodles into her mouth directly from the carton. 

“I can hear you being gross and emotionally stunted,” Wells says. Clarke makes exaggerated slurping noises. “C’mon Clarke, you’re the one who called.”

Clarke swallows and wipes at her mouth with the back of her shirtsleeve. “I got offered a job.”

“Artist job or doctor job?”

Clarke snorts. “Please.”

“You can be an artist Clarke. I believe in you.”

“I know.” Clarke sways a little, smiling. “You always have.”

“I thought you hadn’t started interviewing yet for residency programs?”

“I… haven’t. It’s a weird situation. But the job is something else.”

“If you’re interested you should take it.” Wells hesitates. When he speaks again it’s tentative, testing. “It’s been a long time since you were curious, excited.”

Clarke leans her head under the faucet and slurps down some water, leaving the noodle cup in the sink. “I guess,” she mutters.

“Did you call me to talk you into this or out of it?” Wells is smiling again, Clarke can tell.

She bites her lip. “It’s with the military,” she says. “And the posting is… it’s far. And remote.”

“What are you saying?”

“I could write,” she says, “maybe, but the location’s just uh, it’s--”

“It’s military?” Wells’s voice goes sharp. “No contact? Is it based in Colorado?”

Clarke blinks rapidly. “Yeah. How’d you know--”

“I gotta call you back,” Wells says, abrupt, sounding rattled. “Tomorrow, okay? Don’t--don’t accept anything until I call you back.” He hangs up while Clarke’s still sputtering.

//

Clarke falls asleep with the television on mute, mashing her face into a cushion to keep the colors off her eyelids. Her front door opening wakes her up. “Huh?” she says, sitting up on the couch, blinking fast.

“I’ve always hated this apartment,” Abby says, closing the door behind her and looking around with a faintly pinched expression. “Why are you sleeping on the couch?” She shrugs off her coat and drops her bag on the coffee table. “Don’t tell me you don’t have a bed.”

“I have a bed,” Clarke says. She does. It may be covered in clothes and shoes and coffee travel cups and possibly an unwashed plate or two, but she has one.

“I know we’re playing at estranged,” Abby says, walking into the kitchen, “but I need to talk to you and you’ve been ignoring my calls.” She looks around. “Dear god.”

“So I’m a little short on forks,” Clarke says, rubbing her eyes and stretching a little. “Did you ever think I was ignoring your calls for a reason?” Abby finds a paper napkin and reaches into the trashcan. She comes up with three forks and a spoon, metal. “Huh,” Clarke says.

Abby’s eyes look soft, and fond. “Your father used to do that,” she murmurs, “in college. He put them in chip bags so he wouldn’t have to see them--he felt guilty.” She smiles, a little happy, a little sad, and for a second she looks like Clarke’s mom again, who laughed when her husband made stupid jokes and woke up early to make pancakes on Sunday mornings. She clears her throat and it all fades. She opens Clarke’s fridge and rolls her eyes. “Are you deleting my voicemails without listening to them as well?”

Clarke shrugs, flopping back down into the couch. “At least I’m consistent?”

“I’ve accepted a director position,” Abby says. “In Mali.” 

“Good for you.”

Abby shuts the fridge with visible anger. “You’re a grown woman, Clarke. Can we not?”

“Go to Africa,” Clarke says, standing up so she can glare properly. “Go to Russia, go to China… go to Mars! What do I care?” She falls abruptly silent, turning away and dragging a hand through her hair. 

“So that’s it,” Abby says behind her. “This is my last attempt Clarke. If you want severed ties, you can have them. But if there’s something, anything…” she trails off. 

Clarke stares at her television. Every few seconds the screen is dark enough that she can see her mother reflected. “Can you unkill Dad?”

Abby’s breath catches. She walks to the door and hesitates. “I love you, Clarke.”

Clarke doesn’t say anything, doesn’t turn. Abby leaves quietly, the door clicking shut behind her. Clarke grabs her jeans off the floor, fishing through the pockets. She shoots a text to Wells, apologizing for not waiting, and finds the business card the Air Force had left her. 

“Hello?” she says when the line rings through and a polite, professionally detached voice answers. “My name is Clarke Griffin, I was offered a position with--” she squints at the card. “The Ark Project?”

They transfer her, and her phone buzzes against her ear. 

_**Wells:** Clarke, don’t take it_

“Yes,” she says, when someone comes on the line, not paying close attention to their name or title. He phone buzzes again and doesn’t stop--Wells is calling her. She clicks it through to voicemail. “I’d like to accept the position.”

//

They give her clothes to change into, roughly her size: cargo pants and combat boots, a belt, thin socks, even itchy looking briefs. She clutches the only thing she’s been allowed to keep: a plastic tub the size of a shoebox she’s stuffed with pencils, sketchbooks, her lucky stethoscope, her father’s watch, her favorite movies, her stuffed raccoon from age four. An airman checked it, smiling apologetically as he removed the airplane bottle of tequila, and escorted her to a washroom to change, lit by dim industrial lighting and her hip banging against a grimy sink. 

She shuffles out and is walked to a transport shuttle, other nervous looking people holding their shoebox tubs in their laps. “Here,” a girl says, sliding over to offer her the aisle seat. “This is free.”

Clarke sides into the seat. “Thanks.”

“Octavia,” the girl says, offering a hand. “Anthropology.”

Clarke takes it. “Clarke Griffin, Medical.”

“Thank god,” Octavia says. “I thought you might be Anthro too, but I don’t remember you from boot camp.”

“I was in the last rotation of training.” Clarke grimaces at the memory. “Not my favourite six weeks of all time.”

“I didn’t know they had another rotation after mine. Lucky for you, ours was a year.” Octavia leans against the window of the bus. “I liked it though.”

The conversation stalls and Clarke casts about for something to say. “Not Anthro,” she settles on. “Would that be bad?”

“Hell yes,” Octavia lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s a cutthroat field, and we’ve all done bad bad things to get ahead.”

Clarke smiles. “I’m just a doctor. Haven’t even done my residency yet.”

Octavia looks blank. “I… watched Grey’s Anatomy. Once. Do you guys really have sex in on call rooms?”

“Not really,” Clarke says, thinking back to summer internships, 56 hour shifts. “Mostly you drool into a pillow and wish for the sweet respite of death.”

Octavia’s expression clears. “Same, except dusty library basements and the microfiche machines.” She grins, bright and fierce. “I’m so excited I might throw up.”

Clarke maybe likes her, enough to look sympathetic and offer Octavia her water bottle. “As long as it’s not on me.”

//

The mountain is a hum of activity. “We’re on the fourth transpo,” Octavia says, as they’re hurried along through tubelike hallways and security checkpoints. Clarke’s ID is slippery in her sweaty palms. “The big wigs went through first, and more marines. Now they’re onto the nerds and the canned goods, I think.”

Clarke’s stomach is flipping, and she puts a hand to the bottom of her belly, just above her hips, and tries to take deep breaths. “Yeah, course.”

They enter the biggest room yet, in a ragged column, flanked by soldiers with rifles, and Clarke walks into the person in front of her, staring. A giant metal ring stands erect, and within it glows a liquid substance, blue and shimmery. “Woah,” Octavia breathes, and grabs Clarke’s elbow with a too tight grip. “I think I might pass out.”

Clarke grabs Octavia’s hand on her arm, tangles their fingers. “We can do this,” she says, more to herself than Octavia. “We’re gonna be fine.”

“Right,” Octavia says, breathing too fast. The column walks up and balks with each person, but the marines are working in calm tandem, taking people by the elbows and pulling them gently but insistently through the ring. “I’ve read about the stargate,” Octavia says, “but I’ve never…” she trails off. 

The soldier to Clarke’s right hands them an airplane barf bag each at the base of the ramp. “Open it before you go through,” he tells them sympathetically. His eyes flick to Octavia. “Your brother’s gonna kill you.”

Octavia flaps a hand at him, dismissive, still staring. She walks up the ramp, pace quickening, and Clarke hurries to keep up. “Your brother?”

“It’s beautiful,” Octavia says dreamily, ignoring Clarke all together. Her face goes determined. “Let’s go,” she says, and yanks Clarke up until they’re inches away. She reaches out a hand, touching a finger to the surface. It clings when she withdraws, before snapping back, gurgling and flowing.

“Don’t hold up the line,” a soldier says, bored, and gives Clarke a push between the shoulder blades.

Clarke trips through the gate--

 

\--and falls out the other side, stomach pitching violently. She fumbles to get the bag open and vomits in the same motion, hearing other around her do the same.

Octavia rubs her back. “Here, take mine.” Clarke’s full bag is taken by a nurse and she empties her stomach again, into the one Octavia had given her. “That was amazing,” Octavia says. “Stay here, I’m going to go look obviously not sick in front of a Colonel, try to get my name up on the list for gate travel.” She disappears into the throng of people. 

Clark finishes retching. The second bag is taken away and she’s guided gently but firmly into another line. Someone holds up a scanner, checks something on a clipboard. “Griffin, Clarke, medical.” A sheaf of papers are pressed into her hands, a keycard. “Quarter assignment, map, shift schedule, first week schedule. Clothes and linens are in your quarters, keycard opens those, the mess, and the rooms marked on your map as accessible to you: labs, libraries, research centers. Direct questions to your immediate supervisor or the head of your department. Next!”

Clark stumbles sideways. Octavia catches her, emerging from the crowd. “Found you,” she mutters, “this is crazy.”

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees, looking around at the hustle and bustle, dazed looking people dotted with those operating with calm, almost bored efficiency and familiarity. She fumbles through her papers and finds the schedule. “I’m supposed to report to medical first thing.”

Octavia squints at her own packet. “I’m not until tomorrow. C’mon, your room then mine, then you can run off and be a doctor while I cream myself over alien architecture trends.”

//

“I am Dr. Pike, and I am _not_ your immediate supervisor,” a man in a white labcoat reads from a clipboard. “I am, in fact, the head of Anthropology. However, one of my many degrees is in medicine, and we are responsible for administering physicals for all people on this base. Deducting you two, me, two nurses and the department head, that’s 146 people. We all know nurses do the brunt of the work, so they have today off.” He steps aside. “Today you get familiar with this infirmary, take inventory, and memorize the maps. You’ll meet the other department heads at lunch.” He pauses, looking at something on his clipboard. “Dr. Griffin.”

Clarke jumps “Yes?”

“You have the Ancient gene?”

“Uh,” Clarke says. “What?”

“It’s in your medical file--” He stares at her for a longer moment. “ _Griffin_?”

Clarke stares back. “Yes?”

“Nothing.” He clears his throat, mutters a terse “Get started,” and stalks out, coat flapping.

“What’s his deal?” Clarke’s fellow doctor mutters, and then turns to her, smiling boyishly. He sticks out his hand. “Captain Finn Collins.”

“Clarke.” His grip is firm and dry and friendly, and if he lingers a little to let go, Clarke might be okay with it. Good smile, good hair, smart, just her type. “No rank.”

“Inventory,” he sighs, handing her a clipboard. “At least we can get to know each other.” He smiles again, sly and sweet.

Clarke smiles, letting the tip of her tongue poke through, biting the top of her pen. “Yeah.”

//

“Clarke!” Clarke turns, her hands on her plastic tray, feeling like the first day at a new school, and sees Octavia waving at her from a table, sitting next to another boy with Octavia’s dark hair and smile. She makes her way over.

“Hey.”

Octavia kicks out a chair for her, chugging from the cheap plastic water bottle. “Did you get ham and cheese?”

Clarke flops into the seat, checking her sandwich. “Turkey and swiss.”

“Ooh,” Octavia teases, kicking the chair next to her. “She lucked out, huh Bell?”

“Bellamy Blake,” the boy says, smiling, “Captain Bellamy Blake.”

“He’s obsessed with me,” Octavia says flippantly, “follows me wherever I go.”

“I was with the program years before you,” Bellamy says mildly, “years.”

“Yeah,” Octavia says, and something edges in her voice, dark and angry. Bellamy’s smile freezes, then deliberately relaxes. Clarke takes a bite and chews, avoiding eye contact. Octavia clears her throat. “So,” she says, forcing a smile, “you’ll be sticking me with needles tomorrow?”

Clarke nods. “Physical, bloodwork, x-rays. Baseline readings. I’ll make it as painless as possible--unless you get Finn. Then I have no control.”

“Finn?” 

“Other doctor,” Bellamy says, “came in yesterday just before you. We served at the SGC--the Command-- together.”

Octavia wiggles an eyebrow. “Is he cute?”

Clarke flushes, faintly. “Maybe.”

Bellamy frowns. “That’s my cue, I think.” He stands, one hand falling carefully to Octavia’s shoulder. She tenses and his hand drops to his side, curling up slightly in loss. “Nice to meet you, Clarke,” Bellamy says politely.

“Likewise.”

Octavia watches Bellamy with slitted eyes, then switches on a dime, smiling at Clarke like the sun. “Okay, so tell me about cute doctor friend. Is it gonna get all Grey’s here?”

Clarke laughs, but before she has a chance to answer, someone is banging on a table. “That's your boss,” she whispers.

Pike climbs on one of the tables. “My name is Dr. Pike, head of Anthropology, and I’d like to introduce you to the department heads and fearless leader of this expedition.” 

“He seems like a blowhard,” Octavia whispers, and Clarke makes an agreeable noise.

“--Medical Director, Dr. Abigail Griffin--”

Clarke drops her water, splashing over the table. Octavia yelps, drawing back, and starts to dab with the cheap paper napkins. “What the hell, Clarke.”

“That’s my mom,” Clarke whispers. 

Octavia’s mouth drops open. “Shut the fuck up,” she hisses, and looks back. “She’s scary. You didn’t know?” Clarke shakes her head, mute. “Do you think that’s why they got you? She asked?”

“--Dr. Jaha, expedition leader--” Clarke elbow slips in surprise, banging on the table. Clarke’s mouth thins to a straight line. She stands abruptly. “I’ll be back.”

She heads for her mother like a rocket, building rage as she goes, and grabs her around the wrist while Pike drones on about someone in the other corner. She drags her into the hallway. “What the _hell_ mom? You _and_ Wells’s dad?”

Abby blinks at her. “Clarke? You came?”

Clarke resists the urge to throttle. “Like. You. Didn’t. Know.” A thought strikes her. “Is that why they let me join so late? Did you _tell_ them to recruit me? What happened to ‘severed ties if you want them’?”

Abby sighs. “You’re my daughter, Clarke, and you weren’t answering my calls. What did you expect me to do, greet you at the gate? You’ve always been more agreeable when you’re making your own decisions.”

Clarke makes an infuriated noise. “Excuse me,” she grits out, “I have a lot of inventory left to complete.”

“This is a good thing, Clarke,” Abby calls out after her, “Honey--I’ll see you at the department meeting tomorrow!”

//

Octavia knocks on her door at nearly nine. “I’m exhausted,” she groans when Clarke answers. “Inventory kills braincells, and my roommate is the bitch whose flashcards I burned during the Great Conference Debacle of 2012.” She shoves a sandwich into Clarke’s hands. “I didn’t see you at dinner.”

“Worked through,” Clarke says, stepping back and biting off a yawn. “My Great Inventory has been defeated.”

“Lucky bitch,” Octavia says, flopping onto Clarke’s bed. She sits up as suddenly as she’d gone prone, biting her lip. “I’m rude,” she says, “and difficult, and I always think I’m right.”

“Okay,” Clarke says, more interested in putting as much bread in her mouth as she can, her hunger awoken with a vengeance. 

Octavia bites her lip. “I don’t have any friends,” she says quietly, “just Bell, and we’re--anyway. You seem okay, and you’ve got connections--mom and childhood uncle bigwigs--, which can’t hurt, to be honest--”

“Are you asking to be friends,” Clarke asks, slightly garbled through a mouthful of food. 

“I guess.”

Clarke swallows and takes another huge bite. “Yeah, okay.”

Octavia smiles, sudden and blindingly bright. She fishes in a pocket and comes up with a flask. “I’ve never had a sleepover,” she says, “but our shifts all start at noon for the--” she makes quotation marks with her fingers “--‘gate lag’, so I’m thinking we drink all of this, braid each other’s hair, maybe get naked and have a pillowfight.”

Clarke snags the flask away and takes a swig. “Maybe just the first two.”

//

Clarke drops the used needle into the biohazard box and snaps off her gloves, pulling on a fresh pair, automatic. “Next,” she calls, ushering out a marine.

“That’s it for the day,” Finn says, pulling the curtain aside. “I was uh, wondering,” he loses a little of his easy detached coolness, stuttering, can’t look her in the eye. “Are you doing anything for dinner tonight?”

“I think we’re all eating mediocre sandwiches in the mess hall because they haven’t set up the kitchens yet.”

“Right,” Finn says, flushing faintly. “My room has a balcony,” he blurts, and Clarke raises an eyebrow. “Maybe we could eat on it,” he finishes, and then winces. “Can we pretend that was smoother than it was?”

“Maybe,” Clarke says. “It depends on how dinner goes.”

//

Octavia sits on her bed, drumming her fingers on her mattress. “Okay but… you actually didn’t know?”

Clarke shoves through the clothes in the macgyvered wardrobes they’ve each been issued. “No, I actually did Not Know my mother was the head of the medical department.”

“All the way through boot camp and everything, and nobody spilled the beans.” Octavia whistles, low. “And she’s a big deal! You know she can declare anyone not fit to lead the expedition? And she’s not far down the line of command. Like maybe fifth at the lowest.”

“Yeah well, she’s always been the number one dictator in my life. And even Dr. Pike was surprised to see me, and he’s a department head.” Clarke unfolds a shirt with a snap of fabric and holds it up to herself for inspection. “Can I borrow this?”

Octavia tilts her head at Clarke carefully, then flashes a thumbs up. “You seriously didn’t bring any of your own clothes? They said we could bring five out-of-uniform items.”

Clarke shrugs, making quick work of her t-shirt and starting on the blouse buttons. “They’re all hoodies and jeans and stuff. Comfort clothes.”

Octavia sighs. “Rookie mistake, Griffin. You never know when you need a halter top and a push up bra.”

“For all the clubs we’re going to discover here?”

Octavia snorts. “You think aliens don’t party?” She checks her watch. “Hurry up or you’ll be late.”

“I’m going,” Clarke says, shoving her feet into her shower flip flops. She looks down at herself. “How do I look?” 

Octavia surveys her. Skirt, pulled up to be shorter than it was designed to be and just on the right side of classy, a flowy tailored blouse, just barely closed over Clarke’s chest. “Hot,” she decrees.

//

“It’s beautiful,” Clarke says, leaning on the rail. The breeze blows salt air against her face, and she inhales. “It smells different than Earth.” Saltier, sweeter, something else she can’t name. Alien.

“That’s what I like most about it,” Finn says. “I’ve been offworld before, but this? It’s amazing.” He smiles, shy. “I’m glad we got to see this together.” He joins her, and they lean their shoulders against each other to watch the sun dip below the horizon. 

“I’d love to paint this,” Clarke murmurs, lulled into soft complacency by the play of the light on the water, Finn’s body warm against her own. 

“You paint?”

“I used to.” Clarke turns away and then back. “So, is this all you got? Your best game?”

Finn hesitates, then steps closer. “I have a few other moves. I’ve been keeping them in reserve.”

“Oh really,” Clarke says, and Finn kisses her in the dark, the last of the sun leaving while her eyes are closed.

//

“You slut,” Octavia says admiringly, and won’t drop her hand until Clarke begrudging slaps her own palm against it. “Did you use protection?” Her face twists suddenly. “Shit, I didn’t bring any condoms!”

“We have plenty of condoms,” Clarke says, rolling her eyes, “the last thing SGC wants is a syphilis epidemic in the Pegasus Galaxy.”

Octavia peels her banana and starts to eat it in a sexually suggestive manner. Clarke rolls her eyes again. “So are you guys gonna date?”

“I don’t know,” Clarke admits, picking at her rehydrated eggs. “I had the early shift today, I’ve already worked three hours. We didn’t have time to talk.”

“Gross,” Bellamy says, appearing over Clarke’s shoulder and yanking the banana out of Octavia’s mouth. He takes a big bite.

“Clarke snuck out while he was still in bed,” Octavia says. “Give her a bro high five.”

Bellamy has a funny look on his face. “Finn?” He turns to Clarke. “You slept with Finn?” 

“Sssh,” Clarke hisses, looking around. She tries for a change of subject. “What are you up to today?”

Bellamy drops the banana peel on Octavia’s head and dodges her immediate retaliatory punch to his groin. “We’re clearing out the rest of the city, just the bottom level left.” He shrugs. “It’s all empty, we just have to walk through, greenlight it for use. Probably research labs.”

Octavia perks up. “Can we come with? I want dibs on the best space.”

Bellamy frowns. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re too protective,” Octavia says, mulish. “Clarke’s off after lunch, and I want to explore. Is it actually against some rule for us to come with you?”

“No,” Bellamy admits, begrudging. “It was officially cleared before the expedition began, this is just the final walkthrough. But there's been some odd activity. Spiking on the sensors, disturbed dust, static on the security footage. It’s the whole reason why we’re being sent out to clear it again. I think--”

“Great!” Octavia says. “We’ll meet you at elevator four after lunch.” She stands, grabbing Clarke by the elbow, and drags her away before Bellamy can formulate an argument. “Sorry,” she says when they’ve gone a fair ways. “Do you actually want to come? You don’t have to.”

Clarke hesitates, then commits. “No, I’ll come.”

Octavia beams, and Clarke knows she made the right decision. “Thanks Clarke. I owe you one.”

//

Clarke pokes her head into the infirmary before lunch, lurking until Finn slaps a bandaid against a scientist’s elbow and waves him away. “Hey,” he says, tossing his gloves away. “Wasn’t sure if you were going to come talk to me or not.”

“Thought about it,” Clarke says, shrugging. “Not sure where we stand.”

“Well,” Finn says, sighing real big, “I didn’t want to tell you like this, but…” he trails off, taking her by the shoulders gently. “I was using you. Arkadia sex, you know. Couldn’t pass it up, and you were there…”

Clarke laughs so hard her eyes flutter closed, and when she opens them Finn is ducking in, stealing a kiss. “Dinner later?”

“I’m working a nightshift.”

Finn shrugs. “Breakfast, then.” He kisses her again and Clarke feels it all the way down to her toes.

//

“It’s creepy down here,” Octavia says as they leave the elevator and walk down the dark halls, lit only by military grade glowsticks. They cast an eerie glow, making everything look blue and faded. “I like it.” She skips ahead, ignoring Bellamy’s exasperated call after her.

Clarke smiles, and Bellamy’s hand lands on her elbow, pulling her back. “I like you,” Bellamy says in a half-whisper, “and Octavia likes you, so I’m telling you: this thing with Finn? It’s a bad idea.”

Clarke frowns, off-footed. “I thought you were friends.”

“We are. We did SGC basic together. He’s not a bad person, he just--”

“Clarke!” Octavia waves at them from ahead. “I think this is an access panel.” She does something and the wall whirrs, moving. “Check me out, I’m Indiana Jones.”

“Don’t touch that until I look at it!” Bellamy shouts at her. He turns back to Clarke. “It’s just not a good idea, okay?” 

Clarke grabs him by the jacket. “I’m going to need a little more than that, Bellamy.” She keeps her voice firm. If he felt strongly enough to warn her he can feel strongly enough to explain himself. Bellamy sighs, but he’s close to caving, Clarke can tell. She gentles her face and her tone. “Please.”

Bellamy opens his mouth--and is interrupted by Octavia’s high pitched yelp. They turn and the hallway is empty. Bellamy brings up his weapon. “Octavia?” He jogs down the hallway, Clarke close on his heels. “Octavia!”

Clarke falls to her knees at the last place she saw Octavia, fingers scrabbling at smooth metal. “Where did she go?”

Bellamy touches his radio, calling for backup. “They cleared this hallway already, I don’t understand-” Clarke’s fingers touch the seam of the panel and it glows, suddenly retracting into a shaft. Clarke yelps, falling, and Bellamy dives for her, catching her.

“I got you,” he grunts, outstretched on his belly, his fingers digging bruises into her elbow. Her shoulder protests the pressure, loudly.

“Let go,” Clarke orders, kicking her feet. “Octavia went down, I’m going after her.”

“No way,” Bellamy says, starting to pull her up. “We wait for backup and--” Clarke punches him in the wrist with her free hand, then digs her nails in. “Clarke!” His hand releases, and he lunges, but she pulls her arms in and tucks her chin. She falls.

//

And lands, badly, on her ankle. She lets herself collapse, trying to twist and not break it, and exhales sharply in pain. She rolls on her back and pushes herself up to a sitting position. “Octavia?”

“Clarke,” Octavia whispers, directly to her left. Careful hands help her up. “Ssshh,” Octavia whispers. “We’re not--we’re not alone.” She points in front of them, where there’s a huddled lump against the far wall of the tiny room they’re in. It’s a man, Clarke thinks, although it’s hard to tell. He’s moaning, occasionally, and hunched in pain, if the wracking shivers are any indication.

“Is it… human?” Clarke scoots back, keeping pressure off her ankle, and Octavia helps, until they’re pressed back against the far wall.

“I don’t think he’s with us,” Octavia says, whisper soft, “but he looks human? I guess? Humanoid. It, maybe? Don’t project gender roles onto first contact.”

Clarke has her mouth open to say something indelicate, but it (he?) stands, almost shapeless in the dim light, and they both shriek in terror instead. Clarke fumbles at her pocket, digging out her flashlight. She almost drops it, her hands shaking, but she manages to twist it on, casting the small but determinedly bright light towards the figure just as he rises to full height. And it is a him--as far as Clarke can tell he could pass for full human, if a terrifying unwashed heavily tattooed one in the midst of a rage.

“Shit!” Octavia says, her hand clawing into Clarke’s elbow. The man growls, his eyes glinting oddly in the reflected light of Clarke’s flashlight, creating the visage of glowing demon eyes before they squint shut against the bright light. He lurches forward with snarl.

Clarke and Octavia scream again. They stumble back, Clarke’s foot giving out and Octavia dragging her along. They stagger down the dark hallway as fast as they’re able. “Fuck,” Clarke pants. “Fuck, fuck, just-- just go, don’t--”

“Shut up,” Octavia snaps. “I can’t carry you, so just shut the fuck up and hobble faster.”

Clarke hobbles faster. Behind them, she can hear him. The drag of his feet, coming faster and faster, his awful groaning rattling breaths, the snarl and snap of his teeth. “He’s gaining on us,” she hisses. Still in her hand, the flashlight’s beam bobs on the floor and the walls, erratic and strobe-like.

Octavia grunts, trying to take on more of Clarke’s weight. “I know.” 

“He’s gaining on us,” Clarke repeats, more urgently.

“I know!” Octavia takes a sudden turn, making Clarke stumble. She drops the flashlight, but before she can cry out or try to retrieve it Octavia shoves her through a doorway and presses her hand over the panel. “C’mon,” she grits out, eyes scrunched close. “C’mon, c’mon, come _on_ \--” she slaps her palm against the panel, and at the contact it glows, brilliant blue as the technology comes alive in response to the genetic marker in Octavia’s blood. The door whooshes shut, barely a second before the hulking man slams into it, roaring. He throws himself against it two more times, then stops. Things go oddly quiet.

Clarke and Octavia press their ears against the door. “Can you hear him?” Octavia whispers.

All Clarke can hear is her own pulse, her and Octavia’s panicked breathing. “No.”

Octavia turns her back to the door, sagging. “Fuck. Fuck.”

“I dropped my flashlight,” Clarke says, guilty, and then, in agreement: “Fuck.”

Octavia fumbles through the pockets of her military-issued drab olive jacket, the same as Clarke’s and everyone else’s. “Here.” She finds a pocket light, not as bright as the big heavy ones, about as long as her palm. It’s enough for them to see the small room where they’ve hidden. And small it is, more of a closet than a room. And completely bare, as Octavia sweeps the light back and forth. No panels, no hallways, no exit. “Fuck,” Octavia repeats. She crosses to the other side in a few steps and runs a palm along the wall. “This level wasn’t on any of the maps I saw.”

Clarke never really looked at the maps she was issued. She assumed she’d be told where to go and she’d figure it out once she got there. “Hmm,” she says, like she’s also studied them extensively. “Bellamy knows, though. We just have to last long enough for them to find us.”

“Tick tock,” Octavia mutters. “Go back, find his superior, report what happened. Find his superior’s superior. Authorize a search and rescue. Military bureaucracy: known for its quick mobilization.”

“Civilian led,” Clarke reminds her. “It’s a small base,” she adds. “And supposedly trained to function predominantly in crisis-mode.”

“I’ve heard shit,” Octavia says. “Rumours, sure, but… everything starts in a truth. And I think we need to start thinking about how we’re getting ourselves out of here.”

Clarke waves her hands around the incredibly small empty closet they’ve locked themselves in. “Using what, exactly? I’m not opposed to rescuing ourselves, but if there’s nowhere to go and nothing to do it with I say our best option is embrace the damsel.”

Octavia squares her shoulders, getting into Clarke’s face. “And you’re in charge of both of us?”

Clarke refuses to back down. “If I’m not it doesn’t mean you are.”

Ocatvia’s eyes narrow. “You look like you grew up easy. Probably a house with two floors and central air. Got a mom with a big name and a lotta weight to throw around and get you into the program. You skipped steps; it’s why you don’t know shit about the gene or who anyone is. You used to Mommy taking care of things for you, get you out of any trouble and smooth your way?”

Clarke snarls.

“It’s not a bad thing,” Octavia says, visibly trying to reign herself back. “Maybe it’s even how it should be. But that was you, and I was me. And I learned you can’t ever count on anyone to drag your ass out of a hole. Especially one you dug yourself.”

Something about her word choice, or maybe her tone, niggles at Clarke, makes her pause. “You fell. If it wasn’t on the maps and no one knew about it, it’s not your fault.”

“Right,” Octavia agrees, just a beat too slow. 

“Octavia--” Clarke starts, but doesn’t get any farther. The top half of the door suddenly bends forward, warping away from the hinges with a screech of alien metal and the dull sparks of residual power.

Clarke and Octavia scream in terror, throwing themselves backwards, and the man roars, clawing his way through the remains of the door with his bare hands. He lurches in, clumsily cramming himself into the opening he’s created, then rising, unsteadily but imposing, to his feet. Clarke’s back is literally against the wall and her vision has gone shaky, hazy, the light from Octavia’s flashlight bobbing frantically as they press themselves as far away from the man as they can. 

Slowly--or maybe that’s just her mind, shuttering like a camera--he straightens to his full height, towering, shaved head and shirtless and the light reflecting off his pupils, making them glow. There’s a knife in his hand, jagged and sharp and blood dried rust red on the blade. He snarls, wordless, and Octavia’s fingers are around Clarke’s forearm, grip so tight it’ll bruise if they live long enough. Octavia shines the light in his face and he grunts, recoiling, one hand coming up to shield his eyes.

Clarke always hoped she’d handle conflict quickly, decisively, even cooly. Maybe a quip before and after, a cocky smirk and a sexy outfit. And now she’s in a basement a galaxy away from home with a grad student, an alien berserker straight out of a low budget science fiction film, and a flashlight smaller than the vibrator she used to keep under her pillow; she has no illusions about how well this is going to go for her. So instead of any of the scenarios she plotted out in her head while she watched movies on her door room bed and on the couch with her college suitemates, she screams bloody murder, kicks the alien in the balls, and tries to run away on a badly sprained ankle.

She wouldn’t have made it without Octavia, who seems to be channeling her own inner reservoir of life-or-death sudden strength, yanking Clarke’s arm over her shoulder and almost lifting Clarke clean off her feet as she takes on her weight, dragging Clarke through the destroyed doorway and down the hall. “Hurry,” she chants, the both of them stumbling over each other’s feet, their own, “hurry, hurry, hurry--”

“I got it,” Clarke grunts, getting her legs under her. There’s a roar, from not that far behind them. “He’s catching up.”

“I know,” Octavia says, her voice snappish and tight. “Right,” she says, when they hit a fork in the hallway, and then: “here, here--” Another panel, glowing when Octavia puts her hand to it. Another doorway opening, another stumble inside and frantic closing of it. 

“That’s not going to hold,” Clarke says, leaning against a wall with a wince. “The other one didn’t.”

“The other one was a closet,” Octavia says, and when Clarke turns she’s cast the beam of light on the room. There’s a table, shelves, something that looks like a desk. The remains of what used to clearly be chairs. All wooden, all clearly not of the same make as the rest of the base. 

“That guy’s people?” Clarke guesses.

“Don’t know,” Octavia says, crossing to the large table and shoving at one end with a grunt. “Don’t care. Help me?”

Clarke helps her drag the table over to the door, and flip it over onto its end to act as a barricade. She hops over to help push the desk. “You really don’t care?”

“No,” Octavia admits, as they wedge the desk against the table and Clarke collapses into one of the few intact chairs. “I care a fuckton. I’m just slightly more concerned with the imminent death we’re facing.”

“Fair,” Clarke grunts, gingerly testing her boot against the flooring. “You think that means there’s more of them down here?”

Octavia runs her hand over the edge of the table, dust sticking thick to her hand. She grimaces and wipes it on her pantleg. “I don’t think they’ve been living here for a while. And they’d have come already, right? It’s not any of this has been quiet.” She jerks her thumb at Clarke. “Get up, that chair is going over here.”

Clarke groans as she stands, hobbling over to slide down the wall while Octavia adds her chair, and then other bits of wood to the barricade. “You think that’ll be enough?”

Octavia finishes and stands back to look at her work. She shrugs, then plucks what Clarke thinks maybe was a chair leg from the rubble pile, twirling it in one hand as a makeshift club. “We’ll see, I guess.”

She sits next to Clarke, the club across her lap. They both look at the door. “We’ll see,” Clarke echoes.

 

“Hey,” Octavia says, some amount of time later. “That was a good move you had, earlier.”

Clarke starts, surprised at herself for almost drifting off. She rolls a shoulder. “Self-defence 101, right? Didn’t have any keys to put between my fingers.”

Octavia taps her club on the floor, her legs crossed, elbows leaned on her knees. “Not a damsel between us, eh?”

“Fucking right,” Clarke says, and they bump fists.

//

Clarke wakes up with Octavia’s jacket pillowed under her head. She groans, bleary-eyed and her ankle throbbing. “Fuck.”

Octavia looks up from where she’s hunched by the opposite wall. “Hey. You’re awake.”

Clarke sits up with an effort. “What’re you doing?”

Octavia leans back, revealing that she’s prised away a panel near the floor. “I think this level is running on… ‘emergency power’, you know? Doors open, there’s some lighting in the halls. But not enough to pop on our grid upstairs.”

“And?”

Octavia sighs. She sits back. “I was trying to create enough of a… something. Enough that they could figure out where we are. Turned on those little things with that fancy gene of ours, but...” She gestures at the dim blue lights along the floor, just barely illuminating the outline of the room and floor.

Clarke shifts her foot and bites back a yelp. “Not enough?”

“No.” Octavia crawls back to hover by Clarke’s outstretched leg. “I’m a nerd, but not the right kind. I think I just yanked out a bunch of wires and burned the shit out of my wrist from the sparks. Could tell you some things based on the woodworking, though. Do you think I can fight the rabid man with cultural analysis?”

Clarke snorts. “If we make it out of here I’ll have you autograph my copy of your paper.”

Octavia half-smiles at her. She gestures at Clarke’s foot. “Should we like… rip my shirt into pieces and wrap that or something?”

Clarke shakes her head. “Too late. It wouldn’t fit back in the boot again if I took it out now. Help me tie the laces tighter, it’ll hold until we get out of here.”

Octavia undoes her laces and starts at the toe, pulling them tighter and tighter until Clarke is grimacing, her head tilted back on the wall and staring at the ceiling while she controls her breathing. “I like that optimism.”

“I’m a real positive person,” Clarke says, and it makes Octavia laugh, finishing the bow with a flourish and a tap to Clarke’s knee.

“Good to go, Griffin.” Octavia hesitates. “You know, about what I said earlier, I--”

“Octavia,” Clarke interrupts. She points at the ceiling. “What’s that?”

Octavia cranes her head up. She blinks, then fumbles in her pocket for the flashlight, aiming it upwards. “That. That looks like one of the trapdoors we fell through.”

“We could drag the table back,” Clarke suggests, “It’s taller than the desk. And I could give you a boost.”

Octavia frowns. “I wouldn’t be able to pull you up. I’d have to go find someone, and the table wouldn't be in front of the door.”

Clarke shrugs. “It’s better than nothing, which is what we have if we don’t do this. And I’m good at staying put. Something about being raised in that picket fenced privilege mansion.”

Octavia flips her the bird. “I was trying to apologize for that, jackass.”

“This is a plan,” Clarke insists. “This is a good plan.”

“Okay,” Octavia relents. “Yeah, okay. But you better be alive when I get back from playing Lassie, okay?”

“Okay. You gonna help me up, or should we spit and shake on it?”

“She’s injured,” Octavia mutters to herself, hauling Clarke up by the elbow. “It’s a very stressful situation. Who wouldn’t be a little bitchy about it?”

“Wah wah,” Clarke says, hobbling over to help move the table. “Everyone’s a critic.”

 

“Okay,” Octavia says, half-vaulting with a grunt onto the table and reaching down to pull Clarke up after her. “How are we gonna do this?”

“You sure it’ll open if you can get up there?”

Octavia shrugs. “The doors opened, didn’t they?”

Clarke gets on her hands on knees. “Tell me if my back is flat enough.”

“Ready?” Octavia’s boot plants itself on her back; Clarke grunts at the sudden weight.

“How much do you weigh, anyway?”

“Fuck you,” Octavia suggests. Clarke hears the hum of the trapdoor opening. “Okay, so far so--”  
The door booms as something strikes it from outside. The remains of their barricade jumps with the force, shudders. Clarke yelps as Octavia loses her balance, crashing down on her as they both tumble to the floor. Clarke groans, the breath knocked out of her, her ankle screaming.

The door booms again. “Jesus fucking Christ,” Octavia curses, limping to her feet and picking up the her makeshift club again. “Why can’t he take a fucking break.”

“Maybe we should just--”

“No,” Octavia snaps. “I’m not leaving you here with--with _that_ coming through the door.” She sets her shoulders. “We opened the door. If they’re looking for us they’ll find it.”

“Right,” Clarke agrees bleakly. “If.”

Octavia helps her stand. Grips her forearms and looks her straight in the eye. “Clarke. We’re not military, and your mom might be a big name swinging the cavalry at us, I don’t know her well enough to say. But trust me on this: Bellamy will always look for me.” The doorway shakes, It starts to warp. “And even if we’re murdered horribly, we should still go down as the official first contact. So that's something.”

Clarke takes a deep breath. The top of the door is starting to give way under the barrage, each strike causing the barricade to tremble. The chair at the top of it falls with a clatter. “Okay. Maybe we--” she casts her mind about, frantic for something, anything. Her gaze falls on the panel Octavia had been poking around in, still sparking every so often. “I have an idea.”

 

The barricade gives. It only takes another minute, maybe two. It feels like longer, but the barricade gives. And just like before, the door comes down. And just like before, the man comes through, slow and lurching and then sliding into movement that’s more deadly, almost graceful. Clarke sees his long fingers around the hilt of his knife, the definition in his muscles as he tenses for a strike. His eyes lock on hers. Without the flashlight reflecting off them they’re darker. Clarke can’t tell in the dim light but she thinks they might be bloodshot, unfocused. His lip lifts when he snarls and she can see the whites of his teeth.

And then Octavia steps out from behind the desk and hits him in the back of the knee with the club. When he whirls on her she shines the light into his eyes, and Clarke pulls another chairleg out from behind her leg where she was hiding it. She aims for his head but he twists, catching the blow across his shoulders instead, then catching her club in his hand and yanking her close. Before he can do anything else, Octavia hits him again, driving him down to one knee. Clarke kicks him in the crotch again, then falls, her ankle giving out from under her. She scrambles back out of his reach, lurching to her feet just as Octavia comes back in swinging for a homerun. 

They drive him back, keeping his attention split. It works for about four feet, and then he wrenches Clarke’s club out of her hand, flinging it aside with a roar. He grabs her by the throat and yanks her close. Her vision starts to go dark, and she thinks--he could crush her in one hand. He could snap her neck with a twitch of his fingers, and all she can see is how straight his teeth are, and the watery red blood staining them, running from his broken nose. She hears the crack of the bat, and then she’s on the floor, sucking in oxygen. 

“Fuck you,” Octavia is screaming, “just fuck you so--” she hits him so hard the wood splinters--“so--” she kicks him in the chest, toppling him backwards. “Much!”

He falls, his shoulders hitting the wall, then his back as he slides down to the floor. And then he convulses, the wires pulled out and exposed and making full contact with his bare skin. Clarke can smell it--burnt hair and melted cloth. And then everything flashes once and goes completely black.

Clarke fumbles in the dark, jamming her fingers on the wall before she uses it to drag herself to her feet. “Octavia?”

The flashlight, fallen to the floor, suddenly bobs. Clarke squints when it flashes at her. “Sorry,” Octavia says, averting it to the wall, and then over to the man’s prone body against the wall. “You think he’s dead?”

“You wanna check?”

Octavia snorts. “Not even a little bit.” She keeps the light on him. His nose is broken, there’s blood on the wall where his head slid down it. 

“I think his chest is moving,” Clarke says.

“Yay?” Octavia questions. “Is it bad I’d feel safer if he was dead?”

“I would,” Clarke says with a shrug. “Should we… try the table thing again?”

Before Octavia can answer, a shout echoes. From above them. They both freeze, then tumble into action at the same time, Clarke taking the flashight in exchange for helping Octavia scramble up onto the tabletop and cupping her hands around her mouth. “Here!” Octavia shouts. “We’re down here!”

“Can you see anyone?” Clarke asks.

“I can’t see fuck all.”

“You want the light?”

“No, keep it on Mr. Furious. I’ve seen too many fucking horror movies to trust he stays down.”

“Mm,” Clarke agrees. She redirects her attention to the man in the corner. Octavia shouts again, then throws a piece of wooden rubble up through the hole to clang on the level above. Clarke hears the shouts again, getting louder. Closer. She picks up another piece of wood and passes it to Octavia to throw. “It’s working,” she encourages. “Keep going.”

“ _Here_ ,” Octavia screams, in her throat and so harsh Clarke knows she’ll be rasping tomorrow. At least it seems likely now there’ll be a tomorrow.

“Clarke! Octavia!” Bellamy’s voice echoes above them, panicked and loud, and it echoes down into the room. And-and the man shifts. Clarke sees it from the corner of her eye, her attention pulled away by the thought of possible rescue. 

By the time she snaps back around, the flashlight waving as her hand trembles, he’s on his knees. Clarke grabs a handful of Octavia’s waistband and hauls her backwards, off the table and putting it between them and the man.

He stands, and even slightly hunched it’s an intimidating sight. There’s dark paint over his shaved head, scratched over his eyes. He’s not snarling, or roaring. Instead he rasps at them in another language, harsh and garbled.

“What language is he speaking,” Clarke asks, dragging them farther away. Her ankle doesn’t hurt so much anymore, not with the fear for her life that’s currently rising in her throat, choking.

“No idea,” Octavia grunts, helping Clarke move. There’s not far to retreat, and no other doorway at their backs to escape. “Bellamy! We’re down here!”

The man advances, speaking more quickly. Clarke tries to look non threatening. “We’re peaceful,” she says. “We’re sorry we, uh, fell in your house.” She smiles.

“Don’t smile,” Octavia whispers, “baring your teeth is aggressive.”

“You know that but you don’t know what language he’s speaking?”

“Three sentences isn’t really enough for my inner Rosetta Stone,” Octavia hisses, “I’m doing the best I can.”

The man closes the distance between them in a blink, and Octavia and Clarke both scream. He grabs Clarke by the leg, hands on either side of her knee, and yanks her out of Octavia’s grasp, pulling her easily to the other side of the room. Clarke screams again. Octavia scrambles after them, shouting, throwing the last piece of wood at his head, and he shoves her back easily. “It’s not broken,” he says, and Clarke goes abruptly silent mid-scream, surprised, her mouth gaping open.

Octavia freezes in the act of throwing another chunk of rubble. “You… speak English.”

“Yes,” he says. “Who are you?”

“Who--” Octavia sputters, “who are we---who the _fuck_ are you?”

A rope falls down from the opening they’d fallen through in the roof and Bellamy slides down it, fully armed. Clarke hears the sounds of guns clicking above them, safeties flicking off, the glint of the barrels pointed down at them from above. Bellamy takes one look at Clarke and the mystery man and raises his rifle, letting out a snarl of his own. “Who the fuck are you?”

//

Clarke’s never been so glad to see her mother in her entire life. “Thank god,” her mother is saying, her hands cupped on Clarke’s face. “Clarke, god, I--”

“Yeah,” Clarke interrupts. “Can someone fucking sedate me already?”

 

She wakes up in an infirmary bed, her ankle throbbing but in a distant sort of way. She stretches, sore and aching, then sighs and opens her eyes. Her mother is staring at her, unamused. “Good morning.”

“Is it?” Clarke rasps. She winces, then touches her throat. It’s tender and bruised under her fingers. “Morning, I mean.”

“Yes.” Her mother hands over Clarke’s chart. “Bruising is the worst of it. You’ll be off the ankle for a few days, no PT for at least three weeks.”

“Oh no, PT, my favorite.”

Abby rolls her eyes. “Good to know your sense of humor wasn’t traumatized out of you.”

Clarke sighs. “So it’s this again. You know you can’t make me change schools so Octavia and I can’t hang out anymore, right?”

“No, Clarke.” Her mother smoothes the sheet, half-rumpled across Clarke’s waist. “This is not like the time you went joyriding in Olivia Johnson’s father’s car.” Her hand trembles, very faintly, and she tucks it into the pocket of her white coat. “Not at all.”

Clarke goes quiet for a moment. She picks at the threads at the edge of the sheet. “You must have pulled some strings to get me out of that one, huh?” She frowns. She’s never thought about it, not once since Abby stormed into the police station and snarled that if she wasn’t surrounded by a hundred law enforcement professionals she’d slap Clarke across her idiotic juvenile spoiled brat face. She never had to appear in court, never did a minute of community service. _You look like you grew up easy_.

“You’re my daughter,” her mother replies. “And I wasn’t there for you the way you needed. I never seem to be.”

“I fell through a trapdoor as a fully grown adult,” Clarke points out. “It’s not like you told me to go play in traffic.”

“I tried to leave you at home by yourself for a month the day after I. After your father died.” Abby sighs. “And then I arranged to have you included in a galactic expedition that may end in the deaths of all involved. And an alien tried to kill you during the first month.” She starts to reach out, maybe to touch Clarke’s hair, then stops herself. “They carried you in on a stretcher and for a split-second I thought you were dead.”

Clarke blinks. This isn’t--her mother drawn up into herself and the lines around her eyes, the way Clarke felt her touch Clarke’s hair when she thought Clarke was still asleep. She searches for something to say. “Yeah,” she agrees lamely. They sit in silence another moment, and then: “We hit 115 in a school zone.”

Her mother barks out a short, surprised, laugh. “Jesus Christ, Clarke.”

“It was a T-Bird, mom,” Clarke says, with a slow hesitant peace offering of a smile as her mother hides her mouth behind her hand, her shoulders shaking. “I was sixteen. It was love at first sight.”

//

“First contact,” Octavia breathes dreamily, leaning against the wall while Abby rewraps Clarke’s ankle. “I can’t believe I made first contact.”

“We,” Clarke corrects, dry. She winces.

“Right,” Octavia says, apologetic. “So uh, Dr. Griffin, do you think I could--”

“That’s up to Dr. Pike,” Abby cuts her off. Something beeps and she checks a scanner. “His bloodwork is in--I need to brief Jaha.” She taps Clarke gently on the side of the ace bandage. “Stay off this. Collins and I will handle your shifts for the next two days, Pike can help out if we need it. Dr. Blake, can you take my daughter to her room?”

“Of course.”

Abby hesitates, then squeezes Clarke’s hand gently. “We’ll talk later?”

“Maybe,” Clarke says, looking away. Their short shared peace faded within hours, and she doesn’t look up as Abby leaves. Octavia nudges a wheelchair over with her foot. 

“I’m thinking donuts in the hallway,” she teases, and Clarke smiles a little. She stands, ginger careful, and slips into the chair with a sigh. “So,” Octavia says, wheeling her out, “mommy issues?”

“I guess,” Clarke mutters.

“Me too,” Octavia says, “well, in that she fucked off since before I can remember.”

Clarke looks up. Octavia’s tone is flippant but her mouth is a flat line. “I’m sorry,” she offers. 

“Me too,” Octavia says, and they walk quietly until they get to her room. Clarke hands Octavia her key card and Octavia unwraps their sandwiches while Clarke climbs onto her bed. She undoes her single boot with one hand and tosses it aside. “I’m so fucking tired of these shitty sandwiches,” Octavia mutters, sitting cross-legged across from Clarke on the cheap blanket and taking a resentful bite. “They’re getting soggier by the day.”

“My dad died,” Clarke says abruptly, dragging her nails up and down the clingwrap. “Car accident. He was on life support. She took him off. Waited until I was at school to do it.”

They take twin soggy bites.

“My dad was a drunk.” Octavia looks down, biting her lip. “Bellamy dropped out to take care of him, but it didn’t help. He worked three jobs, then joined up to help pay for my school.” She shrugs. “I think he’s dead now, my dad, but I don’t know. Bellamy used to keep track but he doesn’t talk to me about it.”

Clarke takes another bite, and the bread feels too thick in her mouth, sticking to the insides of her teeth and her gums. “Sucks,” she says, lamely.

“Yeah,” Octavia says. Then she bounces on the mattress. “Hey, so what’s the what on the alien?”

“He’s sick,” Clarke says, “don’t know what, but symptoms present like some kind of withdrawal, late stages. Fluids and pain meds, watching for seizures. Looks like he’ll recover though. He’ll be held in observation for a week after recovery, debriefed at some point.”

“And then he’s _mine_ ,” Octavia says gleefully.

“You remember him trying to kill us, right?” Clarke touches the bruises at her throat. “Because I do.”

Octavia frowns. “But then he tried to help, right? Your mom says he was sick. Like out-of-his-head sick. You think the shock reset his brain?”

Clarke shrugs. “Just be careful. We don’t know anything about him. Except for the attempted murder, which I know I’ve mentioned but seems to be perpetually relevant.”

Octavia waves a hand dismissively. “Leave the past in the past, Clarke. It’s first contact; the others are going to _burn_ with jealousy. Hey, do you think I could visit him in the infirmary? Won’t hurt to start making a connection.”

Clarke shrugs. “You can on my shifts, I don’t mind. Unless you upset him--technically he’ll be in recovery.”

Octavia squeals. “You’re the best Clarke, seriously--” someone raps on Clarke’s door, insistent tapping. “I’ll get it.” Octavia opens the door. “Oh hey--” Finn pushes by her, breathing hard. He stops just inside the door. “Clarke.”

Octavia gives her a thumbs up from behind Finn’s back. “I’m gonna… bye.” She leaves, the door _wooshing_ shut behind her.

“Hi,” Clarke says. “Sorry I missed breakfast.”

He walks to the bed, hesitates, and then leans down to hug her. He takes a shaky breath. “They just said you were injured, wouldn’t be able to work for a few days.” His eyebrows draw together. “And that you were attacked by a mutant in the sublevel.”

“He’s not a mutant. He was uh, nice actually? For like two minutes at the end. Mostly scary, though.” She jerks a thumb in the general direction of the infirmary. “They tied him up and dragged him back.”

Finn takes a step back, one hand coming up to the back of his head, awkward. “Uh, yeah, I saw. I was worried.”

Clarke smiles. “Yeah?” She pats the bed next to her. “When’s your next shift?”

Finn checks his watch. “Three hours.” He sits and leans back, sighing. 

Clarke wiggles down, pulling him with her, then leans in close, a hair away from cuddling. “This okay?”

Finn’s arms close around her, tuck her carefully against his body, warm and solid and safe. “Yeah.”

“Set an alarm,” Clarke says, halfway to dozing. “Don’t oversleep.”

“Clarke,” Finn says, “I have to tell you something… it’s important.”

“Later.” Clarke yawns, burrowing her nose into the pillow.

“Okay,” Finn whispers, and presses a careful kiss to just behind her ear.

//

Clarke takes the man’s vitals. Jots notes on his chart, sets up the tray. “It’s Jello,” she tells him. “It seems like torture, but some of us actually enjoy it.”

He stares at her with fevered eyes, lightly sheening with sweat.

“If you try to bite me,” Clarke warns, “it’ll mean a feeding tube. A feeding tube is a thing that you will _not_ enjoy.”

“It hurts,” he rasps. He groans. “It burns.”

“It’ll pass.” Clarke scoops out a spoonful of lime and jiggles it in front of his mouth. “Open up for the airplane.”

He blinks. “What?”

“Ahhh,” Clarke says, hanging her mouth open to demonstrate. He tries to raise his hand to take the spoon and his wrist restraint rattles against the metal railing. Clarke tries not to flinch and doesn’t entirely manage it, by the look on his face. “Open up,” she says gruffly, “if you want to eat.”

He opens his mouth. Clarke feeds him and he chews. “I’m sorry,” he says, after an awkward pause. “For hurting you. It’s not---I’m not like that. That’s not who I am.”

“You were,” Clarke says, as evenly as she can. She immediately feels shitty about it. “--on something,” she tries to backtrack. “That’s what our tests show.”

He nods. “I know.”

Clarke hesitates. She feeds him another spoonful. “Made you stronger. I guess I can understand wanting that.”

“I didn’t want it,” he says, after he swallows. “Not at first.”

A nurse--fuck, Clarke’s gotta start learning names and stop being That Doctor--touches Clarke’s elbow, offering to take over. Clarke shakes her head and waves her off. “I got it.”

“Do you know what it was?” she asks, feeding him another bite. “If you know what was in it, it could improve your treatment.”

He stares at her for a long moment. “You already know,” he says, and then turns his head away on the pillow. “I’m not hungry.”

//

Her mother finds her review charts in the backroom. “Our new guest say anything important?”

Clarke shrugs a shoulder, flipping through a clipboard of test results. “A vaguely ominous accusation.”

Her mother reaches out to fuss with the ends of Clarke’s hair, escaping her braid, and Clarke can only tolerate it for a few seconds before she jerks away with a glare. Her mother accepts the rejection without comment, tucking her hands back into her pockets. “You’re not supposed to be back on rotation yet, not until you’re cleared.”

“By you,” Clarke mutters. “Conflict of interest much?”

“Yes,” her mother responds dryly, “wanting you to be a hundred percent well before I make you go back to work, I’m a monster.” She takes the clipboard from Clarke’s hands. “He’s recovering well,” she remarks with a quick look at his chart and not a single remark on what’s clearly Clarke’s handwriting. “What did he say, exactly?”

Clarke sighs. Her ankle hurts, and it’s still another hour before she can take more tylenol. “Nothing, really. I asked him about what he was on, and he said we already knew. I guess he assumed our tech is a lot more advanced than it is.”

“What else did he say,” her mother presses, her tone gone sharp. “Any names?”

Clarke blinks. “Names? I mean, he probably knows our names if he’s been paying attention, but it’s not like we’ve lined up and introduced ourselves. I guess we should, it’s only--”

“So he didn’t say any names?”

Clarke stands with a wince. “No. I’m going to bed before you start asking if he ended his sentences with a preposition.”

Her mother catches her by the elbow. “I think you should let Milly handle his care. I’m his primary.”

Clarke stares. “I fed him jello mom, I didn’t carve his name into my hope chest. Relax.”

Her mother forces a smile, releases Clarke’s arm. “Of course. Sleep well, honey.”

//

“Do you have a middle name?”

The man blinks. “A… middle name?”

“We have three names, sometimes. Sometimes less, sometimes more, but three a lot of the time.” Clarke feeds him a spoonful of meatloaf. “If your first name is such a secret, I was thinking you could tell me your middle name.”

He chews a few times, quiet. “I only have one name.”

“Oh.” Clarke scoops up some mushy vegetables. “It was worth a try, huh?”

“Your ankle,” he says, abruptly switching topics. “Does it still pain you?”

“No,” Clarke says, sticking her leg up and wiggling it. “It wasn’t you,” she reminds him. “I got that falling.”

“Your bruises are gone,” he says, looking away. “I did give those.”

“They’re gone,” Clarke repeats. “Now open up for mashed potatoes.”

She feeds him the bite. “If you’re so guilty,” she says, “you could tell me your name. All would be forgiven.”

“I thought you said it was forgiven.” His face twists in pain; he turns his face away from another bite. 

Clarke stands, setting the tray aside. “That was a joke,” she murmurs, laying him back and adjusting his pillow. She wipes his hairline with a towel, sweatdamp and warm enough she can feel it through the fabric. 

A nurse hovers at her elbow. “Doctor? A visitor is here.”

Octavia comes in, handing Clarke a cheap cheese pastry and carrying portable DVD player. “I brought you something,” she tells him, smiling hesitantly. “You have plays right? Shows, and… acting? Storytelling.”

He nods, carefully inscrutable. “Of a sort.”

“We do too.” Octavia drags a chair over. “I found someone who likes documentaries, and they leant me a few.”

“Documentaries,” he repeats.

“They’re like--I mean, you’ll see. I figured you could use some company.” She turns to Clarke. “You. You look like garbage. Go take a nap and drink a protein shake.”

Clarke opens her mouth to argue.

“Oh look,” Octavia says, dramatically fishing a post-it note out of her pocket. “It’s your mother’s pager number.”

“He’s eating less and less,” Clarke says to the nurse without directly addressing Octavia’s threat. “He’ll have to go on a feeding tube if we can’t figure this out. Keep the fluids going and page me directly if the fever spikes or breaks.”

//

Clarke sleeps for a full day. Then she eats until she feels less like she’s going to throw up and passes out, not necessarily in that order. On the second day, her pager starts beeping at two in the morning, then twice more, once at four and again at six. None of it is good news. 

“Yes,” Clarke snaps, silencing the pager at her belt. “Thank you Harper. If I’m physically in the same room already attending to the patient, I don’t need to be paged.”

Octavia is holding his hand. “Clarke,” she says, more quiet and subdued than Clarke has ever seen her. “Clarke, you have to do something. He’s dying.”

 

Clarke raps her knuckles on her mother’s doorframe. “Have you considered my suggestion?”

“Considered and discarded,” Abby replies without looking up. 

Clarke scowls. “He’s been sedated. And he’s only getting worse. He was talking and eating eight hours ago, and he’ll be dead before breakfast tomorrow if we don’t do something.”

Abby scribbles a signature and sets a chart aside. “Then think of something.”

Clarke resists the urge to kick her mother’s desk. “I _did_.” 

“Something not insane,” Abby suggests helpfully. “Because a blood transfusion at that volume is _insane_.”

“It’s blood poisoning,” Clarke insists. “We don’t have to understand why it’s so different from anything else we’ve ever seen or dealt with to try something. Blood poisoning. Different from how we’ve seen it, but we know how to treat it. Flush out enough of the sickness to give his system a fighting chance.”

Her pager starts to go off. 

“And,” she adds, slipping it off her belt and tossing it across the desktop. “If we do nothing he dies anyway.”

Her mother reaches out, silences the beeping. “Alright. This is on you, Clarke. And you can’t be lucky every time.”

“Not every time,” Clarke agrees. “But maybe this one.”

 

She sets up the transfusion herself. Her latex gloves on the tubes, ripping away plastic sanitary packaging, the slip of the needle under his skin and the hum of the machines. 

And then she waits, her legs going tingly and her eyes getting heavy, hands in her lap, Octavia’s head on her shoulder. They wait.

//

His eyes flutter as he surfaces from the sedation; he groans something unintelligible.

“Shh,” Clarke soothes, “it’ll be alright soon.” She gives him a tired smile. “You’re doing very well.”

“My name,” he rasps. Octavia smoothes his rumpled gown.

“I know, it’s a secret.” Clarke holds up a paper cup and a bendy straw. “Little sips. You’ll be weak for a little while longer, but it’s looking good for a full recovery.”

His fingers twitch, his chest straining to be closer to Octavia. She bends close, and then closer, his break on her cheek and her hair against his chest. 

“My name,” he whispers, “is--”

//

“Lincoln,” Jaha repeats, sounding deeply skeptical. “And he’s from the mainland?”

“Impossible,” Pike says swiftly. “The intermittent radiation storms--”

“It’s obviously not impossible,” Jaha snaps. “He’s here, he had to come from somewhere.”

“The mainland has only been inhabitable for twenty years,” Pike says, “maximum. Science doesn't lie. Hostile lifeforms, however--”

“He wasn’t hostile,” Clarke insists. “It was whatever he was on, it--.”

Pike waves his hand at her, dismissive, as he interrupts. “Report to the infirmary, Griffin.”

Clarke stands and hesitates. “He wasn’t hostile,” she repeats. “He’s been in recovery for a week. He told us as much as he can, he says he’s willing to say more.”

“Your experience and input have been noted,” Jaha says. “You’ll be contacted for a full debriefing at a later time. Submit your final report to your department head by the end of the day.”

//

Finn comes through her door at a jog, waking her. “On a break,” he pants, “only have ten minutes left.” He kisses her, doesn’t seem to care about her sour breath, and drops three of the fruity danishes Clarke likes into her lap before running out again. Clarke eats them in little bites between little smiles, strawberry seeds stuck between her teeth.

Octavia brings her lunch, gushes about Lincoln, who’s agreed to teach her bits of his language. “Trigedasleng,” she says, like it’s the Holy Grail. “And they’re an illiterate culture. Do you know what that means?” Clarke opens her mouth, but Octavia runs her over. “ _I get to decide how it’s spelled_.” She thrusts her arms up like she’s scored the extra point personally. “Eat that, academic advisor Dr. George ‘you’ll never make it in the publishing world’ Thrushfelt.” Her face falls. “Except he’ll never know, because we can’t publish for _ages_.”

“There, there,” Clarke says, patting her on the shoulder gently.

Octavia bites back faux tears. “Six years, Clarke, chained in the library basement. Did you know that microfiche has a smell? Because it does, and it lingers. And cute boys do not like it.”

//

Finn makes her dinner, insomuch as he finagles mess fries into a pouch made of paper napkins and smuggles them into her room, along with two packets of ketchup and a pepper shaker. “It’s the only way to eat fries,” he explains as they sit cross-legged on her balcony, squeezing out the ketchup onto a napkin and peppering it heavily. He stirs the mess with a fry and offers it to her. “Trust me.”

Clarke eats it from his fingers, her lips brushing his knuckle. His eyes go dark, liquid. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a balcony and a bathroom? Here I thought I was impressive with my room.”

“My room has an add-on,” Clarke explains, “if someone needs long-term observation or supporting care. So it’s only a perk until there’s a horrible accident and I turn into a 24/7 nurse.”

“Your own bathroom, though,” Finn says. 

“With a tub.” She pops another fry into her mouth, smirking. When he kisses her he tastes like cheap oil and gritty cheap tomatoes. Her belly drops, then coils, hot and excited. “What’s that,” she murmurs when they slip apart, “that you wanted to tell me?”

“It can wait,” Finn says, standing. He swoops her up in a bridal carry and she laughs. His fingers slip against her bare shoulder, faintly greasy. “I want to see the only bathtub in Arkadia.”

//

She wakes up too late the next morning, Finn long gone, and drags herself to the bathroom, sending a fervently thankful prayer out to the universe that her quarters come with an attached bathroom--Octavia’s on a floor with a shared room and she’s already started bitching about clogged toilets and waiting for the shower. She rewraps her ankle, bracing it against the edge of the military installed toilet seat cover, and makes her way down to the infirmary, hardly limping.

“Clarke!” Abby catches her immediately. “You’re limping.”

“I’m bored,” Clarke says, shoving away the pair of crutches Abby is angling at her. “Don’t you have top secret meetings to attend?”

Abby rolls her eyes. “They’re not top-secret, they’re on the master schedule. Everyone has access to it.”

“Where’s Lincoln?”

“Anthro level, with Octavia.” Abby sighs. “If you’re here, can you help? _Polaris_ will be here in a week, and we need an exact count of what we’ve used so far, all reports need to be ready for the transfer.”

Clarke takes the clipboard, faintly resentful. “I thought we were ‘out here on the edge, alone’? And now Earth's only huge transport ship is making housecalls. Isn't there a war on in the Milky Way?”

“SGC has its own problems, but they do what they can. It so happens _Polaris_ is able to send a little help, just to get us started. It’s good to know the big ship in the fleet, right?” She hesitates for a moment. “Clarke, I… I’m very glad you’re here, that we’re doing this together. Maybe we could--”

“I’m going to start in the back,” Clarke says, and leaves.

//

Clarke tells Finn about her dad, lying in bed, sweat drying down her spine. Wells, Octavia, Finn: with every person she whispers her secret to she feels less carved out, less hollow. He gathers her hair off her neck with careful fingers, trails kisses across her collarbones, pulls her close. “I am but a lowly military doctor,” he says, grandly goofy, and she hides her giggles in his chest, “but I will treat you like the princess you deserve to be.”

“I like that,” Clarke teases. “Does that mean you’re going to worship me?”

 _Princess_ he calls her, cradling her jaw, her hips, her thighs.

//

“Today’s the day,” Octavia hums at breakfast. “Infirmary keep you hopping with the ship coming in?”

“Not really. We finished all the reports. And the marines are in charge of transporting the cargo. There’ll be more inventory after, but not until tomorrow, probably.”

“Ah. Finn keep you hopping, then?” Octavia wiggles her eyebrows.

Clarke frowns into her oatmeal. “It was great, I mean, it’s still great. He’s been weird, just the past few days. Keeps saying he needs to tell me something and then backing out of it.”

Octavia punches her shoulder. “Dude, maybe he loves you!”

“After a month and a half of knowing each other? I don’t think so.” But Clarke flushes, can feel the heat rise in her cheeks, down her neck into her chest.

Octavia has the grace not to call her on it. “Well at least you’re getting some. Lincoln is _so attractive_ and _so off limits_.”

“And you can’t publish,” Clarke fills in, automatic. She pastes the appropriate amount of concern on her face and lets Octavia eat her ration of brown sugar.

//

Clarke sits on the empty gurney, kicking her legs and spinning a pen in her fingers. “Where are the nurses today?”

“They get inventory off,” Finn says, “which is fair, I think. And your mom’s in the meeting, so it’s just us chickens today.”

“Yeah,” Clarke sighs. “Still, inventory. So boring.”

“Mm,” Finn agrees. He slides between her legs, hands on her waist. “I bet we could find a way to make it fun.”

Clarke smiles, but leans her fingers on his chest and pushes him away. “Not on hours, babe.”

Wheels squeak in the hallway and Finn steps away. Two marines roll in a cart, laden with crates and boxes, and salute to Finn before turning neatly on their heels and leaving. Finn raises a crowbar like Excalibur. “Allow me, Princess.” He makes quick work of the biggest crate, grunting faintly.

Clarke uncaps the pen and checks the manifest. “First up, the MRI--” The wooden side falls away, and Clarke’s mouth falls open. She makes a weak choking noise. A girl has tumbled out of the MRI machine, unconscious. Her right leg is mangled below the knee, swollen and discolored. Clarke drops her clipboard.

“Raven?” Finn is frozen to the side, his hand over his mouth. 

Clarke throws her pen at him. “Get my mom, page the nurses. She needs help.” Finn dives for the radio, and Clarke turns the girl on her back, checking her pulse and pupils. Finn slides under her with a backboard and they strap her in, careful and quick. “One,” Clarke says, “two three--” they lift her onto a gurney. Clarke feels the leg with probing fingers and the girl moans weekly. “Broken,” she says to Finn, her voice rising in a slight question. He steps back, still dazed, and slides down the wall, his head in his hands. “Hey! I need your help, I think she needs surgery--Finn!”

He shakes his head.

Abby arrives at a run. Clarke rattles stats off. “I think,” she stutters, “compartment syndrome, I think--”

Abby whips the stethoscope back around her neck. “Yes, very good Clarke. The nurses are prepping an OR. Would you like to scrub in?”

“No,” Finn says, blinking fast. “no--Clarke!”

Clarke doesn’t know why he’s taking this so hard, but it’s something she can deal with later. Her first surgery, technically her first patient. “We’ll talk later,” she hisses at him, and nods at her mother, who looks pleased. 

//

Clarke comes out of her first fasciotomy, feeling exhilarated. She cleans up almost dreamily, changing on autopilot and helping the nurses get started on sterilization before they kick her out. She staggers to her room, chugs an entire bottle of water and passes out, still in scrubs and crocs.

An incessant beeping wakes her; the modified pager all personnel were issued. _patient awake_ it says, as she slaps at it for silence. She groans, sitting up, and drags her hair into a ponytail, applies deodorant, splashes water on her face to wake herself up. 

Finn is pacing outside the infirmary and she blinks at him rapidly, squinty-eyed from too little sleep. “Clarke! I’ve been waiting.”

Clarke holds up her pager. “Talk after?”

Finn moves, blocking her from going inside with his body. “No, Clarke, listen--we really need to talk. That thing that I need to tell you, it’s--”

“Finn,” Clarke snaps. “Look, I like you, and I do want to talk about us, but you can’t keep pushing boundaries, okay? I like my job, and I’m going to be good at it. I’m already the least experienced here, and I need to look professional.” She pushes him aside with a grunt of effort and steps inside.

Jaha and her mother are standing at the girl’s bedside. “--without assistance for the rest of her life,” her mother is saying. “If we were on Earth…”

“I think we may have already used too many resources on someone not actually on the expedition.”

Clarke scoffs, striding to the bedside and pushing herself between Jaha and the patient. “So we should have just let her die?”

“I didn’t say that,” Jaha says, faintly bemused at being muscled out of the way. “But I am responsible for the members of this expedition, and resources are limited. These are the facts.”

Clarke rattles the handcuffs, from the girl’s limp wrist to the metal bar of the bed. “Are you kidding me with this? Her leg is shredded, she’ll have pain and a limp for the rest of her life. And where would she run to, anyway?” She puts her hands on her hips. “And another thing--”

//

“Got kicked out too, huh?” Octavia finds her in the mess, glaring at a jello cup. “I’ve been told I’m racking up a ‘concerning and unhealthy’ number of hours in the Anthro labs.” Octavia stabs her own jello, moody. “What does Kane know anyway.”

“Kane?”

“Dr. Kane,” Octavia explains, swapping her green cup for Clarke’s red. She takes a bite and pulls a face. “Head of psych? You really don’t pay attention during meetings, do you?”

Clarke pushes the jello away. “It’s been an hour, I’m going to check on her again.”

Octavia hops up with her. “I’ll come too. Lincoln’s got his checkup in ten minutes.”

Clarke smiles, enjoying the change of subject. “Gonna hold his hand for his shots,” she teases, and Octavia flushes.

“He’s really sweet,” she says wistfully, “and he’s teaching me about his people, his tattoos.” Clarke reaches over to fan her, and laughs when Octavia slaps at her hands. Octavia walks into the infirmary, Clarke trailing her, still smiling. She walks into Octavia’s back with a yelp.

Octavia spins around. “I’m hungry.”

“We just ate.” Clarke moves to go around her and Octavia shifts, blocking her way. 

“I forgot my phone in the mess.”

“No one has phones in this galaxy, Octavia, what the hell--” Clarke shoves her aside, exasperated, and freezes. Finn’s bent over the girl in the bed, his hands on her jaw, and they’re kissing: gentle, relieved, _familiar_.

She makes some kind of noise in her throat, and Octavia grabs her, pulls her out. The last thing she sees is Finn looking at her, eyes wide.

//

“He knew her name,” Clarke says again. “When she--I’m so _stupid_.”

“Fuck him,” Octavia says supportively. 

“I’m fine,” Clarke says, then giggles hysterically before slapping a hand over her mouth.

“Yes,” Octavia says, “obviously.” She stands. “I’ll tell you what. I’m going to go over to the bionerds, and I’m going to promise them something mildly slutty or highly monetary for the tequila I know they’ve got over there. And then we’ll get drunk. Sound good?”

Clarke flops onto her back on the bed, the pillow over her face, and screams. “Okay,” Octavia says, and leaves. 

A few minutes later someone knocks at the door, incessant and insistent. Clarke flings herself to her feet. “What,” she snaps, palming it open, “did you forget--” It’s Finn. Clarke slaps her hand against the panel but Finn darts in, slippery and fast. 

“I really need to talk to you.”

“Get out,” Clarke snaps.

“Raven--”

“It doesn’t matter,” Clarke says, her voice rising. Then she takes a deep breath. “How long have you two been together?”

“Clarke…”

“Come on,” Clarke snaps. “Unless you want to try to tell me that was your first kiss?”

“High school,” Finn confesses.

Clarke gapes at him. “Out,” she says, shoving at him. He rocks back, not even defending himself. “Get out of my room.”

“Clarke, just let me--”

“I swear to god, Finn, I will call for a marine.”

“I love you,” Finn says, big eyed and sorrowful. Clarke shuts the door in his face and stands there for a long time. Then she curls up under her blanket and closes her eyes really tight and focuses on her breathing, slow in and slow out and fighting through the hitches and the jagged pains. When Octavia knocks she ignores it. Eventually she falls asleep.

//

Clarke checks Raven’s vitals quietly, marking them down on her chart. “How’s the pain?” she asks.

“You’re Clarke Griffin,” Raven says. “You cut up my leg.”

“Yes,” Clarke says, keeping her voice soft and even. 

“I like my leg.” Raven’s eyes are sharp and cutting, her voice even more so.

“Then you’re welcome,” Clarke says, “the alternative was to remove it.”

“Oh.”

Clarke makes the last of her notations and hangs the chart at the foot of the bed. “You’re going off the pain medication today, the strong stuff. It’ll be sore. Page a nurse if it gets too bad.”

“Finn told me about you,” Raven says, and her tone is a mix: anger, despair, resignation.

Clarke hesitates. “He didn’t tell me about you,” she says, and then, even though she knows how awfully inadequate it is: “I’m sorry.”

“He’s mine,” Raven says fiercely, “since we were ten years old. We have _history_.” She swallows. “I love him.”

Clarke fumbles for words. “I--” she thinks of Finn at her door, the last kiss they shared, the way his fingers felt against her hips. “I understand,” she says weakly, and flees.

//

“This is pointless,” Clarke grumbles. She takes her hand off the armrest of the chair and the blue lights dim. “It’s not like I’m going to be assigned to an offworld team.”

“I think, technically, we’re all offworld all the time,” Bellamy says, leaning against the wall. “Everyone with the gene is required to bank hours in the sim, Clarke. You’ve gotta learn how to use it.”

“If I’m the one flying the jumper we’re all in trouble.” Clarke smacks her palm down, the room humming to life. “The gene is dumb.”

“The gene powers all this weird alien tech,” Bellamy says mildly. “Anyway, you seemed like you needed some time away from the infirmary.”

Clarke crashes the jumper into a rock wall, wincing as she tries to correct back to the flight path outlined in the simulation. “Yeah.”

Bellamy leans over her in the control chair. “It’s intuitive. It wants to align with your thoughts.”

“Thanks Asimov,” Clarke mutters, the screen blinking red as she fails yet again. “Do you have any actually helpful tips or are you just having fun watching me fail?”

“Both,” Bellamy says, cheerful. He nudges her hand back to the controls. “Again.”

//

“No offense,” Raven grunts as Clarke manipulates her bad leg, “but I like the other doctor better.”

“There’s only three of us,” Clarke says, keeping her voice even, “and one of us is Finn.”

“I’d still rather have the other one.” Raven’s whole body flinches as Clarke pushes her leg up into a mobility stretch. “It doesn’t hurt as much when she does it.”

“I doubt that.” Clarke lays her leg back against the bed for a rest.

“Do you know what they’ve decided to do with me?” Raven rattles the restraints around her wrist against the railing of the bed. “You can’t keep me here forever. No resources to power a gatetrip that far back to Earth. And I don’t think _Polaris_ is going to make a trip just for little old me.”

“It’s not up to me.”

“You could speak on my behalf. I figure you owe me one, since you fucked my boyfriend.”

Clarke snaps the papers on the chart and hangs it back up. “Do you really want to do this now?”

Raven shrugs. “It’s not like I can run you down later. I think my agility’s taken a permanent hit.”

“Finn and I are done,” Clarke says stiffly. She does owe Raven something, she’s decided; she doesn’t know if it’s because of the weight of her guilt or her grudging admiration for this girl, who snuck through untold levels of security and through galaxies just to find the boy she loves isn’t as devoted as she is. “I didn't know about you.” She hesitates. “I think you’ll be out of here soon, I just don’t know where they’ll put you.”

“Great,” Raven says, bitterness so thick Clarke can almost taste it in the air between them. “It’s the brig life for me.”

“They looked you up and apparently you’re a genius. They’re considering putting you to work.” Raven looks surprised, and almost hopeful; Clarke rolls a shoulder at her. “We’re out on the edge and we have minimal support. We’re not about to turn away a resource.” The hope in Raven’s eyes blooms, hot and desperate; here is someone who fears cages. Clarke tries a small, tentative smile and Raven’s lips twitch in response. She decides to quit while she’s ahead, moving towards the back room.

“I still like the other doctor better than you,” Raven calls after her. “She’s hotter, too!”

//

“Clarke,” her mother calls, her shoes clicking on the flooring. “We need you on echo shift.”

Clarke frowns. “I just finished an alpha/beta swing, what about Finn--”

Her mother is shaking her head. “There’s a situation, and you’re a good trauma doctor.” Her hand closes around Clarke’s elbow, and she starts steering Clarke back down the hallway towards the infirmary, at a quick enough clip Clarke trips trying to keep up.

“Mom,” she protests, too surprised to really dig her feet in. “What--I didn’t even do a residency--”

“Clarke,” her mother says impatiently, “do you honestly think I wasn’t asking for and then immediately receiving updates on your internships? I didn’t build a nationally respected career to _not_ use it for personal gain.”

“Stalker,” Clarke mutters. She gets her feet under her, yanking her arm free of her mother’s grip but no longer fighting the momentum carrying them both back to the infirmary. “What’s the situation?”

“Four marines were clearing the east wing, for rooftop observatory access. They radio-ed something about a fog and collapsed.” Abby swipes her keycard to open the infirmary doors, then grabs a SF by the collar of his fatigues and drags him over. “Stand here. Open the door for anyone coming down that hall.”

“Yes ma’am,” he stutters, but he takes her ID in his hands and sets himself by the scanner, spine straight, shoulders back.

Clarke grabs her coat, yanking it on while her mother briefs her and the two nurses on shift of the plan of attack. “--they’ll be here in two minutes,” her mother finishes, after assigning duties and detailing tests. “Clarke--”

Clarke loops her stethoscope around her neck, then holds her hands out for the nurses to snap on latex gloves over her full gown. “You went over this less than a minute ago,” she says, pointing at her head so a nurse will adjust her cap. “I think you can assume if I can be trusted with surgical equipment you can assume I don’t have a traumatic brain injury that affects short term memory.”

“I know it’s a joke honey, but it’s important to me that you know that we are absolutely not to perform surgery on any of these four marines.”

Clarke cuts her eyes to her mother and they--they share a look. It’s fierce and a little afraid and edged with nerves, on Clarke’s part, and the flush of familiar adrenaline, experience steadying out the shakes, on Abby’s. It’s the closest thing to camaraderie Clarke’s felt with her mother since she was a young child.

The marine actives the doors. Down the hallway, marines come barreling, holding stretchers. Clarke recognizes the woman on the first one; she’s seen her around the commissary, the halls. She thinks maybe she was the one who took the woman’s bloodwork for that first physical, their first few days on the new base. 

“Dr. Griffin,” the nurse assigned to her says, and Clarke jolts. 

“Yes,” she says, mostly to herself, “yes. Let’s go.”

 

Clarke doesn’t know what ‘fog’ the marines had meant when they’d called it in to medical, but it killed her first patient before Clarke could intubate. The second, a man, stabilizes after forty minutes of work and a very slight breaking of the guidelines her mother had set forth.

“Christ,” Clarke mutters, stripping her gloves away while her nurse puts the scans up on a board. “Christ.” _Fog_ , is what they’d said on the radio. 

“Shredded,” is what her nurse calls it. Clarke looks at her. Blonde, cropped hair, military vibe. “What’s your name?”

“Harper.” There’s a short, pointed silence. “We’ve met twice.”

Clarke coughs. She’d forgotten, although the name triggers memory. She turns back to the board. “You seen anything like this before?”

“I heard mist,” Harper says. “I was here,” she explains, “when the call came in. They said fog, then they said mist. One said blue, one said black.”

“Helpful,” Clarke mutters. Mist or fog, she’s never heard of anything like this. “Mist of razor blades.”

“No,” her mother says, emerging with a tired sigh and stripping her gown off. She dumps it into the hazard bin, shakes her head very slightly, regretfully, at the questioning tilt of Clarke’s head. No survivors on her mother’s end. “Not razors.” She turns to Clarke with a glare. “Didn’t I _explicitly_ say there would be no penetration of the chest cavity?”

“I assumed it was a guideline,” Clarke retorts, “because I also assume you understand basic medical care. How else was I going to get a clear airway?”

“We’re not military,” he mother says, in a way that’s almost regretful, “but there is a chain of command here, and--”

“Fine,” Clarke interrupts. It’s not like she split the man’s chest open and played with his intestines in the middle of the infirmary. A chest tube, three seconds of action and the faint hiss as her patient managed to inhale at long last. “I’m sorry.”

Abby blinks. “Well that’s--I mean, good. I’m sure it won’t happen again.” She pauses, waiting for Clarke to snark back a reply. 

Idly, Clarke doodles on the edge of her clipboard.

Her mother coughs slightly. “Well.” She takes the chart out of Clarke’s hands, walking to the bedside of her patient. She lifts the gown slightly, checking Clarke’s work, reviewing the chart and the monitors. “You did good work.” She casts Clarke a faintly triumphant look. “I knew you would.”

“Whatever,” Clarke mutters, shrugging uncomfortably under the unfamiliar weight of her mother’s approval. “Any idea what’s causing all this?”

Abby snaps her fingers at a nurse, who dutifully passes over a large folder of x-rays. They go to the board, Clarke clicking the backlight on while Abby hangs the images from the clips. “Well shit,” Clarke mutters, squinting.

Abby trails a finger through the internal carnage. “We need more information.” She taps the light off with a thump of her palm. “Stay here, monitor the survivor. I need to inform command.”

//

“He looks gross,” is Raven’s only comment, as the nurses roll the man into recovery. “You so hard up here in Pegasus that you’re going to make a condemned girl share a room?”

Clarke hangs the chart at the end of the bed. “You’re not condemned.”

“He looks like shit.” Raven levers herself into a more upright position. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Lots of things,” Clarke replies shortly. She starts to tug the curtain around the unconscious marine. 

“Wait,” Raven says, her hand half rising off her bandaged thigh. “What’s his name?”

Clarke pauses. “Does it matter?”

“It does,” Raven says, soft. She swallows. Then she juts her chin out. “What’s it to you, anyway? Just read his tags.”

Clarke touches the metal chain around his neck, disappearing under the thin paper gown. The first marine she tried to treat, the one who died on her table under her hands; she had two and she’ll have one now, one removed and set aside until it can be sent millions of lightyears away to her next of kin with the form letter saying she died in a training exercise. She picks up his chart instead. “Greaves, Wilson.”

“Greaves, Wilson,” Raven repeats. “Wilson Greaves.”

“Wilson Greaves,” Clarke says. She’ll remember it.

//

“Clarke,” her mother says, grabbing Clarke by the elbow in the line for powdered eggs and watery coffee. 

“I’ve been awake for three minutes,” Clarke protests, trying to dig her heels in and failing. “I need caffeine--how are you this strong?”

“There’s a situation,” Abby says, taking the empty cup out of Clarke’s hand and handing it to a passing marine, who blinks, confused, as they sweep by him in the hallway. “You worked on that marine--”

“Greaves,” Clarke interrupts.

“What? Don’t waste time, Clarke.” Abby drags her towards the main conference room. “I need someone to back me up.”

“Back you up on what--”

They enter the conference room, Abby shushing her with a squeeze on her upper arm. “Dr. Griffin,” Abby says, shoving Clarke up to the front of the room before sitting.

Clarke blinks. A tableful of department heads look expectantly up at her. She realizes, suddenly and with bonedeep horror, that her belt has missed one loop. “Uhh,” she says.

Jaha raises an eyebrow. “Enlightening.”

Clarke glares. “No one told me what I’m here to say!”

“They think gas masks will protect against the fog,” her mother says. “And they won’t take my word for it that it won’t work. I’m hoping enough doctors will make them see reason.”

“It definitely won’t work,” Clarke confirms immediately. Her face twists to be so agreed with her mother, but: “we don’t know enough about what’s causing the internal damage to be able to know we can filter it.”

“We need to capture a sample,” Abby jumps in. “But that can be done without exposing anyone to the phenomenon. Send a probe, take it back to the lab.”

Jaha is frowning, and Clarke can’t believe her eyes.

“Seriously? You’d rather risk--?” Clarke fumbles through the folders on the tabletop, the files and printouts and the pictures, until she finds the copies of the x-rays. “Look,” she demands, tossing them across the table so they fan out. “Look at what it did to them. It’ll be a miracle if he lasts the night.”

“The survivor,” Jaha says.

“Greaves.” Clarke clears her throat slightly. “His name is Greaves.”

“... Greaves,” Jaha continues. “Is it possible he would now have immunity?”

Clarke and her mother both start to speak, Clarke sputtering in fury and Abby half-rising out of her chair, but another voice cuts across them both. “Oh for God’s sake Thelonious. Obviously not.” Kane shoots Clarke a smile, calculated. She doesn’t smile back; it doesn’t phase him. “I know it’s science fiction out here but I assume the basic laws of medicine still apply.”

“I agree,” Abby says, quickly. 

“Hm,” is all Pike has to add.

“Thank you Clarke.” Kane stands, a clear dismissal. “Please keep us updated on the survivor.”

Clarke finds herself steered brusquely from the room, the door closing behind her, the blinds drawn. “Greaves,” she tells the hallway. “His name is Greaves.”

//

“He doesn’t sound good,” Raven says, while Clarke is checking her chart. She jerks her chin at Greaves. “His breathing, I mean.”

Clarke makes a humming noise, jotting a few notes. “He’s going into surgery soon. He needs most of one lung removed.”

“Will he survive?”

Clarke hangs the chart in its spot at the foot of the bed. “He has so far.”

“And me?” Raven shifts in her bed, wincing. “Any decision been handed down?”

“There are more pressing matters at hand.” Clarke crosses to the other bed, moving behind the curtain and slipping her stethoscope into her ears. She listens to his lungs, the rattle and the weak rasp of them, and then his heart, thready and rapid but persistent.

Raven’s voice floats from beyond the fabric barrier. “He’s the only one left.” Clarke rehangs her stethoscope around her neck, doesn’t respond. “I heard the nurses talking. The others died last night. So whatever it is… that’s bad, right?”

That morning they’d all gotten a memo: the fog is spreading. The upper levels were evacuated, then sealed off. All the balconies were caulked shut and layered over with tape. The vents are running low; exercising has been prohibited and there were six faintings before her shift even began. Clarke emerges from the curtain and sees Raven’s face: palish and pinched. Scared. “It’s bad,” Clarke says, as gently as she can. “But it’s not dire.”

“Not yet,” Raven says.

“Not yet,” Clarke agrees.

//

“It’s yet,” she says ominously at dinner. 

Octavia looks up from where she’s been playing with her food. “What?”

Clarke shows her the message on her tablet. “Spreading.”

“Fuck,” Octavia mutters. “Wanna hear a weird fucking thing?”

Clarke shrugs. Her sandwich tastes like cardboard in her mouth. Finn is on watch in the infirmary; they’ve been off the past few days, their shifts at odds, the entire base spread too thin.

“The air is clear outside. They’re only keeping the balconies closed because we don’t know why or how the fog showed up. A precaution.”

Clarke frowns at her tray. “Why can’t we pull air in from outside, then?”

“Vent controls are in the contaminated levels.” Octavia shrugs a shoulder. “Fuck of a thing.”

“Explains it,” Clarke says, shoving her tray away with a sigh and giving up on a square meal. Octavia raises a questioning eyebrow. “They’re… eager to find a way a human can survive in it. This explains it.”

“Yeah, well. If you all in medical can’t figure it, we’re all boned.”

//

“You’re not on shift.”

Clarke looks up. “Neither are you.”

Her mother steps into her office, closing the door behind her. “Trying to steal my desk already? I thought I’d have a few good years before usurpation.”

“I don’t have an office,” Clarke says, going back to her stack of papers. “And you do.”

“And so,” her mother says, crossing behind her and bending over, the paper thump of the two mess coffee cups to go on the desktop, the plastic click of the frames while she slides on her glasses. “Clarke…”

Clarke sighs. She pushes the readout away. “I know. I know I don’t have any experience at all in this field--god, _any_ experience at all.”

Her mother tilts her head. “But?”

“But,” Clarke says. “But… it’s serious, isn’t it?” Abby’s been in meeting after meeting, the lab swamped with nurses passing back and forth information, sample cups, reports. Back and forth, medical to science labs to conference rooms. “And you don’t have solutions.” 

“We don’t,” Abby corrects mildly. She taps a finger against a file. “Open that one.” She drags a chair over, takes a pen from her pocket it clicks it. 

Clarke hesitates. No mocking comments, no reminders to know her place? “You’re. You’re going to help me?” 

Her mother drops her cliipboard on the desktop with a clatter. “Here’s a thing you haven’t learned yet, Clarke.”

“Just one?”

Her mother ignores the snarky interruption. “There is no ‘you’. You accepted a calling, and I don’t mean becoming a doctor.” Her voice trails off. “Hm.” She pulls a paper closer, Clarke’s scribbled notes in the margins. “Acidic?”

“No,” Clarke mutters, snatching it back. “That’s not right, I know that. But it’s not like any of the films I’ve ever seen. These lungs. Not mustard gas, not asbestos, not coal. Something else. Sharper.”

“The marine-” her mother stops. Starts again. “Greaves is recovering well.” Her mother nudges her glasses up her nose. “If we were on earth, he’d be honorably discharged. Here… we’ll have to figure something out. But he’ll live.”

Clarke takes the coffee. “He’ll live.” 

 

Four hours later and Clarke’s watch beeps, jarring her out of a drowsy daze. She stands with a groan, her ass numb and her neck cricked. Fumbles twice to get her stethoscope off the desk, shakes the empty coffee cup mournfully before dunking it into the trash on her way out to the recovery room. “Hey,” she says, seeing Raven awake and hiding a yawn with the palm of her hand. She flicks through Raven’s chart. “Everything’s looking pretty good.”

“You guys burning the midnight oil back there? Or is there a bunkbed behind that door.”

Clarke doesn’t respond. 

“C’mon.” Raven pokes at her, trying to pluck the pen from Clarke’s fingers.

Clarke evades it. “Stop that.”

“You think I’m dumb?”

Clarke makes her last note. “You snuck into another galaxy. Three governments were laying security on every transfer between these facilities, and you got through with a penknife, a usb drive, and a song.”

Raven shrugs. “I’m a genius, yes. Fine, you know I’m not stupid. Do you think I’m deaf? Everyone and everything been talking about that fog. Him included.”

Clarke pauses. “Him?”

“Hi,” a voice rasps from behind the curtain. Clarke pulls it back. Greaves blinks at her, swathed in bandages and looking wan. “In my defense ma’am, no one told me she was being detained for treason.”

“I was getting to you,” Clarke tells him. 

He tries a smile at her, weak and watery. “I know you’ve been taking real good care of me. One and quarter of a lung and all.”

Clarke checks his dressings. “We’ll figure it out.” She smoothes his gown. “You’ve already beaten the odds, don’t try and get ahead of yourself.”

He twitches his fingers at her, as much as a handwave as he can manage. “I’m lucky, I know it. And if you need me to clear out to make room for other patients...”

Clarke smiles, gentle as she can. “I’m afraid you’ll be stuck with us for a little while longer.” She avoids mentioning there’s been no further survivors.

 

“No one’s come in,” Raven whispers lowly, when Clarke has stepped out and closed the curtain again.

Clarke, distracted, nods at the nurses coming in and out, the shifts changing. “What?”

“No one new has come in,” Raven says, a little bit louder. She darts a nervous look at the curtain that separates Greaves from them, lowers her voice. “So… that means no one else has survived.”

Clarke busies herself with a drawer, straightening instruments and checking package labels. “No,” she says finally. “No one else has survived.”

“Clarke.”

Clarke looks up. Her mom comes out of the office, gesturing Clarke to lean over her clipboard as she gets closer. “Yeah?”

“I think you were right. Acid.”

“No,” Clarke denies. “There’s not enough damage to the esophagus, the--”

Abby shakes her head. “I know. We don’t know why that is, not yet. But we keep thinking we have to analyze it, we have to name it, we have to figure out how and why it’s here. But we don’t. Just like you said.”

“We don’t need to fully understand it,” Clarke repeats. “We just need to be able to neutralize it enough to adjust the vents. So what neutralizes acid?”

“A base,” Raven interjects. They turn and look at her. “Well, you said it out loud. I’m sitting right here. It’s science for dummies: a base neutralizes acid.”

“Bleach,” Clarke says. “The cleaning solutions, we’ve got gallons and gallons of it.”

“Oh yeah,” Raven says, “let’s douse the entire complex in chlorine bleach, what could possibly go wrong.”

“There’s no ‘let’s’,” Clarke reminds her. “There’s us, and there’s you.”

“Jumping the gun,” Abby says to Clarke, ignoring Raven entirely. “We need to figure out a delivery system, test different possible--”

“Sprinkler system.”

Clarke pinches the bridge of her nose. “Aren’t you tired?” she asks Raven. “You want me to give you something to help you sleep? Tea? Sedative? A pillow over your face?”

Raven rolls her eyes. “Tempting. But the whole complex has safety measures in place, before you even got here. Earthquake supports, smoke alarms. Sprinkler systems.”

“Sprinkler systems,” Clarke repeats. She looks at her mother. “And maybe something that’s not bleach.”

“Powdered milk,” Raven says, as they start to turn away. 

Clarke sees the edge of her mother’s mouth tilt up in a suppressed smile. She rolls her eyes. “Go to sleep.”

“Powdered milk!” Raven calls out after them as the leave. “Powdered milk and the sprinkler system, don’t forget who told you first!”

//

“I think you’re really getting the hang of it,” Octavia says encouragingly. Clarke misjudges a dive and sends the jumper crashing into the ocean. “Oh. Well, they can go underwater, so that’s okay.” Clarke panics, trying to get back up, and accidentally plunges the jumper too deep and too fast, the pressure cracking the hull. “Huh. Remind me to catch a ride with someone else.”

“You’re as bad as Bellamy is,” Clarke groans, sitting back and letting the simulation power down. “Can’t you be happy I helped save us all from terrible lung burning?”

“I heard it was all mystery girl.” Octavia is looking at her watch. “They let her out today, right?”

“It wasn’t all her,” Clarke mutters, poking at a button on the dash. “Some of it was me.” Octavia shoots her a look. “Fine, whatever. Yes, she gets out today. Ankle monitor, low level clearance, grunt work for any department in need. But no brig and no manacles.”

Octavia whistles. “Lucky her this isn’t a full military expedition.” She shrugs, over it much more quickly than Clarke would perhaps like. “Her lab is next to mine. I’m supposed to check on her.”

Clarke slides out of the chair with a breath of relief. “Good. Anything to be done with this.” 

 

They hesitate outside Raven’s workspace, exchanging fierce, arguing hissing whispers, and then Octavia rolls her eyes and strides through the doorway. “Hey neighbor.”

Raven is bent over a table, one hand firmly planted on its surface, the other deep inside what appears to be an iron torture advice from the Dark Ages. She barely spares them a glance, Clarke edging in awkwardly. “Come here, both of you.” Clarke and Octavia share a quick look, Clarke shrugs, and they shuffle over. As they draw closer, Clarke can see the pained arch in Raven’s back, the tremble in her hands and the sheen of sweat darkening her hairline. Raven straightens with a grunt, then backs up until her back hits the wall. “Get that,” she orders.

Octavia picks up the metal thing. “This is heavy. What is it?”

“I didn’t want to use expensive materials,” Raven explains, “not until everyone’s forgotten about all the laws I broke.” She massages her knee. “You’re a doctor, you can help me put it on.”

It takes an embarrassing amount of time, for a group of people with multiple degrees to their name, including medicine and engineering, but they finally get the brace situated firmly around Raven’s knee, over her pants, all of them breathing hard and sweating profusely. She pulls at it, muttering at the bunching and wincing. “That can’t be comfortable,” Octavia says, her face creased.

“I’ll live.” Raven takes a hesitant step, testing, and nods. “It’ll work, for now.”

“You’ll need to make improvements,” Clarke protests. “Even I know that, and I was terrible at lab science.”

Octavia gapes at her. “You’re a _doctor_.”

“Not a lab doctor.”

“I’ll manage,” Raven cuts in. She gives her cane a satisfying kick, sending it clattering against the opposite wall.

“I’m next door,” Octavia says, after Clarke elbows her sharply. “I can come over and help tomorrow, if you need it.”

“Maybe,” Raven allows.

//

“She’s not so bad,” Octavia reports grudgingly, three days later in Clarke’s room. “But I could shun her, if you wanted.” She offers Clarke a fistbump and Clarke rolls her eyes. 

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Good,” Octavia says. “Because she actually is a genius and she brought a ton of movies with her.”

“She packed movies for a stowaway?”

“She’s a planner. But some of the movies she packed are terrible.” Octavia rubs her temple.

“Lincoln likes bad movies?” Clarke asks, sympathetic.

“He raved about the Smurf movie, Clarke. Genuine delight. He actually had to pause to translate his thoughts because he was in such raptures.”

Clarke pats her shoulder.

//

Finn starts leaving her notes while she’s working, and casts her sad looks when have to stand in the same room, but he’s being respectful of her wishes and hasn’t tried to force a conversation. At least, that’s what Clarke thought he was doing, until she wakes up with a shivery chill and sees him standing over her bed. She yelps, a high pitched squeak, and sits straight up. “What the hell,” she hisses, her heart thundering in her chest. “Get out!”

“We need to talk,” Finn says, hands held up careful and appeasing.

“How did you get in here?”

Finn holds up a metal box, rectangular and about the size of his palm. “Overrider. Raven really is a genius.”

Clarke somehow doubts that Raven created a device so Finn could break into her room. “I don’t want you here,” she says firmly. “I want you to leave.”

“You wouldn’t talk to me. What was I supposed to do?”

“Honor my wishes?” Clarke stands, wishing she was wearing something more intimidating than boyshorts and a black t-shirt. “Ambush me somewhere that isn’t my private bedroom in the middle of the night?” She strides to the wall, activating the lights, then squints into the brightness, blinding even at half-power. “Get out. Or I call an SF.”

“No,” Finn says, stubborn. “We need to talk.”

Clarke goes for her desk, and her comm piece. Finn steps between her and her goal, pushing her back gently but firmly. “Get out of the way.”

“I love you,” he says. Clarke breathes hard through her nose. “I’ve been going crazy, thinking about you, missing you.” He touches her shoulder and she shivers, goosebumps rising. She’s attracted to him, still, and his eyes are pleading and he looks worn down and... she believes that he loves her, she does. 

“No,” she says quietly. “You--you lied to me. I won’t ever trust you again.”

“You love me,” he insists, eyes shining, “we can get through this.” He tries to kiss her and she backs up. “I know you love me,” he says, and when she steps back again he grabs her wrist.

“You’re hurting me,” Clarke says, quiet, and he looks down at his grip on her skin, so tight she’ll have bruises. She’s breathing fast, and she’s shaking, and horror dawns in his eyes, sharp and scary.

He drops her like he’s been burned, staggering. “I’m sorry,” he says, shocked. He leaves, stumbling, and Clarke pushes a chair in front of the door before curling up in bed with the lights turned all the way up and her blanket around her ears, trembling. She clutches her comm in her fingers and slips in and out of dozing, jarred into alertness with every tiny sound.

//

Clarke slips past Octavia’s lab, listening the rumble of Octavia and Lincoln’s voices, speaking his native language, and closes the door to Raven’s behind her. Raven looks up, eyebrow arched in surprise. From what Clarke can tell, Octavia and Raven have a tentative friendship and understanding, and Lincoln and Raven get along fine, but Clarke and Raven haven’t been in a room alone together since she was released from the infirmary. “You don’t have an SF posted outside your door anymore,” Clarke says in greeting.

“Lincoln doesn't have one following him around anymore either,” Raven says. “So I guess I’m at the same trust level as the alien.”

Clarke tosses the metal box onto the table, where it lands with a heavy clink, bouncing once among the assorted tools and bits of wire. “One of your toys?”

Raven scoops it up, turning it over. “Where did you get this?”

“Finn,” Clarke says, “let himself into my quarters last night. I take it you didn’t give it to him.”

Raven’s face is drawn up, hurt and furious. “So that’s why he came to visit me. For you.” She throws it back down, disgusted and bitter. “And will you be turning me in?” She rests a hand against the inside of Clarke’s wrist. The gesture is beseeching but her face is something else, guarded and suspicious.

“No.” Clarke hesitates. Her fingers close around the paper Raven slipped her. She blinks quickly, and Raven’s eyes dart to the camera in the corner, warning.

“Octavia and I are having dinner in her lab later. Join us?”

“Okay,” Clarke says, backing away and tucking the paper up her sleeve. She leaves.

 

She walks through the halls, trying to look natural, chewing her lip, and doesn’t stop until she’s in her room, curled in the middle of her mattress with the sheet pulled over her head. She unfolds the note and squints in the dim light strained through the cheap linen.

It’s an unmistakable sketch of a fist, the middle finger raised.

//

“Charming,” Clarke says, crumpling the paper and tossing it at Raven’s head hours later, a sandwich wrapped loosely in her other hand. “I’m so glad I was late to shift for this.”

Raven shrugs. “What, did you think I was going to commit treason and leave documented evidence in my wake?” She pauses, thoughtful. “More treason.”

Octavia comes in, Lincoln trailing her. “Is it safe to talk?” She closes the door behind her, the lock glowing as it activates.

“Yes,” Raven says, tapping another metal box. “Camera looping, mic jammed. I don’t think they’re monitoring us that closely, but here’s to not taking chances.”

“Great,” Clarke says, “can you explain the cloak and dagger now?”

“I didn’t want to bring you in at all, _princess_ ,” Raven snaps. “But Octavia says you’re alright, and beggars can’t be choosers.”

Octavia steps between them, Clarke drawn up and bristling at the use of the nickname. “Raven didn’t just sneak here. She had inside help.”

Clarke blinks. “From who?”

“Your mom,” Raven sneers. The bitterness drops from her expression for a moment. “Uh, seriously. Your mom helped smuggle me into Arkadia.”

“What? Why?”

“We aren’t the first expedition,” Octavia says. “There was another, maybe five years ago? I was working for the SGC as a research intern. Not in the mountain, but in a facility at the University. We started getting these documents, maps, all in this alien language. They tried to tell us it was an undiscovered culture, but nothing matched up. And the technology they were describing, plus the vetting and the non-disclosure agreements...”

“Woke up your inner Mulder?” Raven grins. “Same with us, in the testing labs. I was all set for a transfer to Nevada, as soon as I completed my doctorate, when your mom tracked me down. And yes, Nevada as in Area 51.” She hums the _X-Files_ theme.

Octavia nudges Lincoln. “Five years ago,” he says, obedient, “the _ripa_ started being accompanied by others. It wasn’t unheard of, to see them, the _Maunon_ \--the Men, your kind--but suddenly there were more of them. And they had weapons like yours, the guns. The kidnappings increased.” 

“So,” Clarke says slowly, “you’re saying Stargate Command sent a team here to gather Ancient technology, and they what? Went Mister Kurtz with the aid of a local tribe? What the hell is a ripa?”

Lincoln snarls. “They are not a clan. The _Maunon_ burn our cities, slaughter our children. They take our people and turn them into _ripa_.” Ripa, Clarke mouths to herself. She frowns.

“Closest translation: reapers,” Octavia says. “Or rather, the translation I made up because it sounds cool. From what we can tell, they get dosed with some kind of drug, turns them into crazy murderers. That’s what Lincoln was when we found him. The shock helped clear his head; when you gave him a blood transfusion it flushed his system.”

“It killed him,” Clarke points out. “He was on death’s door for days. I was wrong.”

“I don’t think so,” Raven disagrees. “I’m not a medical doctor, but I think you purged the shit out.”

“You’re not a medical doctor,” Clarke repeats pointedly. Their eyes lock.

“They had ships,” Lincoln says, breaking the tension. “That’s how I got here. _Heda_ \--our leader-- led a raid on their docks and burned most of them. A small party came to the city of our Ancestors to see what they could learn. We were sent to attack them. The men sent to oversee us had weapons like yours. One spit fog. I fell as we were leaving, and couldn’t find my way out. And then you came.”

“Lincoln’s people used to come to the city,” Octavia says, excited, “to perform all kinds of rituals: Ascension, death burning, marriages, sacrifices for--”

“Yeah,” Raven interrupts, “save it for your thesis, Poindexter.”

“Proof the _ripa_ can be cured will be incredibly valuable to my people,” Lincoln says. “I can serve as proof it works.”

“Okay,” Clarke says, still lost. “Great. Why does any of this warrant a secret meeting? Why would my mother want a grad student to sneak her way in?”

“We were kind of hoping you could help with that.” Octavia frowns at the wall. “If another team came, and fell victim to, uh, Mister Kurtz syndrome, why would it need to be a secret? At most it’s eight to twelve soldiers… less considering it’s unlikely they’ve all survived.”

“Eight to twelve according to your mom,” Raven points out. “Could be more. When she recruited me, she said that we owed it everyone to make sure to take down the Mountain, and recapture the SGC personnel involved.”

Clarke shakes her head, arms crossing over her chest. “My mom is a doctor. She’s not even a military doctor. Why would she be spearheading a secret campaign for AWOL soldiers?”

“I think it has to do with the decision to appoint a civilian leader of the expedition. The military wants its fingers in Arkadia's command, and I think your mom agreed to help them.” Raven shrugs a little. “It’s not like she spilled her entire plans or life story. She just knew I wanted to be on the expedition, and told me she could get me in if I promised to help her.”

“Help her do what?” Clarke asks, clearly skeptical. Raven shrugs again.

“So far? Build little things, put in back doors to the codes that run the base and the gate programming.”

“Little things like the overrider,” Clarke says, “that can get you into any room. Little things like the ability to operate the shields, dial the gate, take down the iris that shields the gate.”

“Little things like a coup,” Octavia mutters.

“She has come to me as well,” Lincoln says. “She didn’t ask me anything. I believe she was…” he appears to be searching his vocabulary “fishing for information?”

“Good job babe,” Octavia says. She pats him on the shoulder and he beams at her. “We don’t really know if any of this means anything. We just thought… you’re smart Clarke, and you’re a good person, and I trust you.” She clears her throat. “Maybe we can all just. Be on alert? They’re planning the first land expedition soon, and Lincoln’s people deserve better than that, right? Apparently we’ve already been fucking them over for years. Classic humanity move.”

“Okay,” Clarke says, giving Octavia’s shoulder a light touch, “I’m the last person to say my mom is a saint. But she’s never showed a thirst for power before. And Jaha is kind of a dick, but he’s not doing a terrible job leading, right? And if the military is going through all this ridiculousness to get ahold of a dozen people, I can’t imagine they’d be pleased with a full force coup.”

“That’s the other thing,” Raven says, slowly. “There was a transmission two nights ago, to department heads and Jaha. We lost _Polaris_. 

Clarke’s breath catches. Octavia goes pale. “Lost?” she asks, her voice just barely wobbling. “Like… oops, went to the dark side of Jupiter, comms jammed, or like…” She trails off. 

Raven’s face sets. “Earth has its own problems. No one’s coming back here, to save us or condemn us. We’re on our own.”

//

“I was uh, hoping we could have dinner sometime,” Clarke ventures to her mother, assisting in patching up a few sheepish scientists with electrical burns on their wrists and fingers.

Abby actually stops mid-lecture, shocked. She clears her throat and sends the patients on their way with a last withering snipe at their disregard for lab safety protocols. “I would love that,” she says, so genuine Clarke feels a little rush of guilt. “Tonight?”

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees. “And um, maybe I could help with some of your research? I was interested in immunology during school. I’d like to look into what was in Lincoln’s blood. We’re supposed to start picking research projects, right?”

“That sounds good,” Abby says, beaming. “That’s incredible. I’d be proud to help you brainstorm.”

 

“I hope someone _is_ planning a coup,” Clarke grumbles to Raven, helping her wrestle her brace back on in her lab. “Otherwise this manipulation is sending me straight to ungrateful-daughter hell.”

//

“Clarke,” Octavia says, practically running into the infirmary. “Come with me.”

“I’m in the middle of a shift,” Clarke protests, digging in her heels.

Octavia turns to the nurse on duty. “You can cover, right? Page her if you need her.” She drags Clarke down the hallway, making for the main meeting room. “Hurry up, we don’t want to be late.”

“Late to what?”

“To what’s gonna knock that moron Finn right out of your head,” Octavia says, but the look she shoots Clarke is more subtle. They arrive at the room and she shoves Clarke into a chair at the back. “Shut up and raise your hand when it’s time.”

“We are here,” Jaha starts, quieting the murmur of chatter around the room. “To discuss the first mainland expedition.”

Pike clears his throat. “We have determined it is safe, although members will be fitted with detectors and held in quarantine for a short while upon their return, to be cleared only by a full medical exam: that’s xrays, bloodwork, urinalysis, MRI. If you don’t like needles you will not be going.”

Another man stands up. “That’s Kane,” Octavia whispers when Clarke pokes her, rolling her eyes. “For god’s sake Clarke, don’t you go to interdepartmental meetings?”

“Our Grounder friend Lincoln has told us a great deal about the mainland,” he says, “and this is an unprecedented opportunity to make contact with his society, make allies.”

“Grounder?” Clarke whispers to Octavia.

“What we’ve been calling them. Sshh.”

“It would be nice,” Jaha is saying, “not to be completely dependent on the SGC for food. And not to be at war with any neighbors.” As far as Clarke is supposed to know, they’ve still got a solid connection with the SGC on earth, so Clarke tries to look mildly curious instead of knowing that it’s a need, not a hope, to make a partnership with the mainland people.

Pike scoffs. “From what we have learned, they’re hardly a threat. We are decades ahead of them in terms of warfare technology. Centuries, even.”

“How do we know what their warfare is like?” Clarke asks, guileless. Octavia kicks her under the table.

“From the information Lincoln’s given us,” Pike says, narrowing his eyes at her. “It would be easy to take them over. It might even benefit them, in the long run.”

“You propose genocide?” Kane’s voice is chilly, and it sounds like a familiar argument. Pike opens his mouth to respond and Jaha interjects, smooth and calculating.

“We’re getting ahead of ourselves. Lincoln will be accompanying a small party to the mainland to attempt first contact. We will be sending marines, and are accepting volunteers from the following fields: medical, anthro, bioenvironmental research.”

Octavia’s hand shoots into the hair. She elbows Clarke hard, and after a hesitation her hand rises too. She recognizes the other nurse with her hand raised, Finn, a few people she doesn’t recognize that must be in other departments. “Blake,” Jaha agrees, “Dr. Pike has already recommended you.” He hesitates. “Griffin Junior,” he says, “Green, Jones.”

“No,” Abby says, sharp, “as department head, I--”

“Collins is military,” Jaha says, “and we’ve got our quotas. Griffin has completed field training. If she agrees, she goes.”

Clarke coughs a little. “Yes. I mean, I agree.”

“Good,” Jaha says. “Everyone else, clear out. The initial briefing is now.”

The other people shuffle out, Clarke avoiding Finn’s eyes while her mother hisses in a loose circle with Pike, Kane, Jaha. Octavia is breathing fast beside her. “Shit,” she says, “shit shit, we’re really going.”

Lincoln comes in, flanked by security. They escort him to the front of the room.

“We will be talking later,” Abby says to Clarke on her way out, a promise. She and Pike leave together, murmuring.

“I’ll be leading the expedition,” Kane is saying, and Clarke yanks her attention back to what’s happening. “Murphy, Jones, Blake senior are accompanying us as our security presence, Griffin, Green and Blake junior as our resident eggheads.” He smiles at the polite ripple of laughter. “Lincoln,” he says cheerfully, clapping him on the shoulder, “would you tell us a bit about what we can expect?”

“We come to the sea during the warm months,” Lincoln says quietly, “to hunt, gather other supplies. Plants, hides, roots.”

“Green will be collecting samples of each for bio,” Kane says. 

“We are lead by one person,” Lincoln continues. “Chosen by the ancestors. _Heda_ is a great warrior, but fair. A peacemaker.” He hesitates. “You should not underestimate my people.”

“We won’t,” Kane says cheerfully. He clicks something and a map appears on the screen behind him. “We will now go over the route. In _great_ detail. Take notes.”

//

Abby is sitting in Clarke’s room when she gets back. “I don’t think that’s what your department head override is meant to be used for,” Clarke says, shucking her jacket and grabbing a towel from the closet. 

“What are you thinking,” Abby hisses, “volunteering to go on an expedition--you were supposed to be on shift during that meeting!” 

“So you did schedule it that way on purpose.”

Abby rolls her eyes. “Of course I did, Clarke, that’s obvious.”

“I gotta shower,” Clarke says stepping into the bathroom. “And sleep. Big day, tomorrow. Thanks for stopping by.” She shuts the door before her mother can respond.

 

Finn knocks while she’s in bed, calling through the door _Clarke, Clarke, Clarke. Please._

//

The jumper makes her belly flip, like a ride Clarke took once in a helicopter, like she’s got no center of gravity, like they’re at the mercy of the wind. “You could fly this, you know,” Octavia whispers. “Just log a few more hours in the sims.”

“We’d be safer with Lincoln at the wheel,” Clarke says absently. “It was in his chart,” she explains when Octavia raises an eyebrow. “We’d say they all have the gene, but some humans do and some don’t, so.” She shrugs. Lincoln looks as sick as Clarke feels, clutching the bottom of his seat. “Probably it’s best left to Bellamy.”

“Probably,” Octavia mutters, mulish. “I’ll be better than him with a little more practice, I know it.”

//

They land and the marines spread out. Clarke steps out, feels the spongey give of dirt under her boots, smells the ocean, the sand, the trees. It’s Earth but just a tad off, an otherness she can’t shake. It’s beautiful.

Lincoln kneels by a blue flower, calling over someone to take a sample. “We make camp here,” Kane is saying to Octavia. “Clarke and your brother stay here, hold it down. In the morning we’ll go up by the river where Lincoln marked it for us on the map, leave the message.”

Clarke follows Bellamy around, helping set up the tents, the radio, the perimeter alarms. It’s nice, and it reminds her of when her father took her camping, fumbling with the tent poles, letting Bellamy’s hands cover hers to string the wired alarms. She starts the fire by herself and laughs when Bellamy exaggerates his praise, heats up the MREs for everyone. She and Octavia and Bellamy eat their hot freeze-dried meal by the ocean, their boots and socks kicked off to let the water lap over their bare ankles.

 

Bellamy walks the perimeter in the morning, after coffee and breakfast and the others leave, and Clarke sits by the waning fire with her sketchbook. After his sweep he sits beside her, and she draws him fast, big and caricatured, to make him smile. He chews on the long grass that grows by the treeline and she draws him again, slower, capturing the kindness in his smile and his eyes, so like Octavia and so different at once. 

“They’re camping at the river,” Bellamy says at dinner, after talking quietly in his tent on the radio. “They’ll be back day after next.” Clarke sleeps in front of the fire on Bellamy’s shoulder, wakes when Bellamy nudges her to take watch, clutching a pistol in her hands and going over every minute she spent training on it, nervous at every snap of the fire.

They play cards the next day, and she fleeces him at five card stud, then loses terribly at Egyptian War. She’s asleep in front of the fire again when the alarm goes off, sharp and ringing. She shoots to her feet. “Bellamy?” The tent with the big radio in it is open, the flap hanging limply, and she dives for it. 

A black figure bursts from behind it, catching her up, choking off her scream with an arm around her throat. She wheezes, clutching at it, digging her nails into a fabric that feels tough like leather. She jerks her head back and hits something soft, yielding, and the figure lets out a shout of pain. He drops her and she tries to run, sliding in the sand for the gun next to where she’d slept. She curses herself for not grabbing the gun before trying to run. Something hits her head like a freight train and she falls.

**Author's Note:**

> this is a slowburn. updating will likely be slow because I'm fussy about this fic, but about 40k not including this chapter has already been written, so hopefully that will help me update more quickly. And the chapters will be a little bit longer than average.
> 
> I'm really nervous about this, especially the beginning, because a lot of it was written for nano, which means it feels rushed and hastily plotted, but. I'm posting because I can't keep editing this chapter for another two years.
> 
> let me know what you think and catch me on tumblr @ sunspill


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